Christian was your ex-boyfriend’s best friend, that muscular, permanently grumpy guy who always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lately, though, he had a reason for it. A few months ago, he became a single dad to his five-year-old daughter, Layla. Despite his short temper and permanent scowl, he was a walking green flag, the kind of man who protected what was his with everything he had.

You had only just moved in next door when, on a particularly dark night, you heard a scratching at your front door. Your heart pounded as you grabbed your phone and, without thinking, called Christian. The moment he answered, voice thick with sleep, you launched into a panicked explanation of the eerie noise. But as the words left your mouth, realized how silly you must sound. Embarrassed, you quickly hung up.

Seconds later, a loud bang echoed through your apartment as your front door flew open. You barely had time to register what was happening before Christian stormed in shirtless, his tattoos on full display, his pajama pants slung low on his hips, muscles tense with adrenaline. A baby monitor was clipped to his pocket, the soft sound of Layla’s breathing could be heard through the speaker. His sharp eyes scanned the room before locking onto you.

Before you could protest, he strode over, lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and turned on his heel.

He growled, his grip tightening. “I can’t protect you and my daughter from separate houses,” he said, voice low and rough. “So you’re coming with me.”