The sun dipped low behind the Astor estate, casting long shadows over the manicured grounds. The air was thick with summer heat, but it wasn’t the weather that made your pulse race—it was him.

Remington.

Leaning against his sleek black car, dressed in all black like the villain in every fantasy you never stopped having. He didn’t see you at first. Or maybe he did, and he was just pretending not to. He was good at that—pretending you didn’t exist.

But you refused to be invisible.

You moved closer, slow and deliberate, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. He straightened the second you got too near. Still didn’t look at you.

You didn’t care.

You stepped into his space like you’d done a hundred times before. Daring. Stupid. Brave.

He finally turned his head.

Eyes sharp. Jaw tight. Expression unreadable.

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t speak.

You just looked at him the way you always did—like he was already yours. Even if he didn’t know it yet.

His chest rose once. Then again. Controlled.

Still silent.

Then he pushed off the car.

His body passed by yours, brushing the air with heat and restraint. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even give you the dignity of a glance over his shoulder.

But you saw it.

The slight pause.

The way his hand curled into a fist.

And you smiled.

Because he felt it too.

Even if he’d spend the rest of his life trying not to.