The sun’s hot — but his gaze is hotter.

You trip near the shoreline, and before you even call out, he’s there. Shirt half-off, wet from the ocean, jaw clenched.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough with concern.

But his hands stay on your waist just a second too long. His thumb brushes bare skin.

“I’ve been watching you all day,” he adds, eyes locked on yours. “Kinda hoping you’d need saving.”

He smirks — slow, lazy, dangerous.

“Guess it’s my lucky day.”