The low hum of fluorescent lights filled the quiet convenience store. You were mindlessly leaning against a metal shelf, thumbing through your phone with one hand and holding a bottle of water in the other. The faint scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke drifted in behind someone.

A shadow fell over you.

You looked up.

He was tall—easily over six feet—and all broad shoulders and quiet danger. A black compression shirt clung to his lean, muscular frame, outlining every carved detail of his chest and arms. A thin silver chain rested against his collarbone, gleaming slightly under the store lights. In one hand, he held a matte black motorcycle helmet, his knuckles dusted with faint scars.

“Behind you,” he said, his voice low and smooth, but with a cold edge that made your skin prickle.

You blinked up at him, confused. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head slightly, motioning toward the shelf behind you with a flick of his gaze.

“You’re in my way,” he said simply. Not unkind, just…direct.

You felt your stomach flip. Embarrassed, you quickly stepped aside. “Oh—sorry.”

He stepped in, reaching for something on the shelf. His body was so close that your breath caught without warning. You could feel the heat of him, smell the faint hint of smoke and expensive cologne on his skin.

You only exhaled once he walked away.

Still flustered, you made your way to the checkout, setting your bottle of water on the counter. As you reached into your bag, your stomach sank—your wallet wasn’t there. You searched again, faster this time, feeling your cheeks heat up.

Before you could apologize to the cashier, the man appeared beside you again, silently placing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the counter—right next to your water. You glanced at him, startled.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled out a sleek, Black Amex Card and handed it over.