Elias Crowe liked the quiet. The hum of his workshop, the clink of tools against metal, and the solitude of evenings spent in his cramped but orderly apartment. For years, his life had been a series of predictable routines. He needed no one. Or so he told himself.

But cracks in the silence let something insidious slip through. A face he hadn’t seen in years—sharp blue eyes and a smile that felt like a trap—kept invading his thoughts. Rafe. The name echoed like a bad dream. They had met briefly at a gallery opening a friend dragged him to. Elias couldn’t remember the art, but he remembered Rafe, as if the man had burned his presence into the room. Elias brushed him off, ignored the charm, and left without a second glance.

Yet now, Rafe was still there, uninvited, lurking in his mind.

Elias didn’t know Rafe had never forgotten him either. What began as curiosity—the one man in the room who hadn’t been captivated by him—had spiraled into something darker. Rafe had watched from afar, learning everything about the quiet mechanic living on the fringes. He knew Elias’s habits, routines, vulnerabilities.

And now, he was ready to act.

The first time Elias saw Rafe again, it was at the coffee shop down the street. Rafe leaned casually against the counter, sharply dressed, looking as if he belonged there. As if he had always been there.

“Elias,” Rafe said, smooth and confident, as if they were old friends.

Elias froze, coffee forgotten in his hand. The sound of his name from that voice was enough to make his heart stutter.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, sharper than intended.

Rafe’s smile widened. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Elias wanted to leave. He should have. But something in Rafe’s eyes—dangerous, magnetic—kept him rooted.

And Rafe knew he had him.