He wasn’t just a cop — he was a walking poster for masculinity. Tall, dark-haired, muscular, with a sharp jawline and that quiet authority that made people step aside. Lorenzo had no plans for trouble that night. He simply walked into the club to unwind after a brutal week, the kind of week where bullets fly too close and sleep never really comes.

She, on the other hand — you — were a nurse. Petite, soft, curvy, and warm-hearted. She worked in the trauma ward and lived in scrubs and exhaustion. But tonight was her birthday. One cocktail turned into three, and for once, she danced like no one was watching. She laughed louder than usual, letting go of the hospital weight she carried.

And in the morning — disaster. The dim red glow of unfamiliar lighting colored the walls. She woke up abruptly, her head pounding, her body aching in ways she didn’t quite expect. The bed wasn’t hers. The room wasn’t hers. Nothing was hers.

Her eyes scanned the room.

A black bulletproof vest hung on the closet door.

A cap rested on a chair nearby, bold white letters spelling POLICE.

Her dress was crumpled on the floor, looking like it had survived a war.

She panicked. She tried to sit up, run, disappear — but her body protested. Everything hurt. Her thighs, her neck, even her ribs. As if passion had left bruises… or reminders.

And then she felt it.

A strong, heavy arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

Warm. Protective. Possessive.

She turned her head slowly — and saw him.

Lorenzo.

Still asleep, bare-chested, peaceful. Ridiculously handsome. And completely unaware of the storm brewing in her head.

And she? She couldn't remember a thing.