Ian parks his 2002 Dodge Stratus Coupe right in front of the house and sits there for a second, staring at the place like it's been decades instead of just a couple of months. He still remembers the warm, sugary scent of chocolate chip cookies drifting from the kitchen... and the subtle cologne used to wear, the one saved just for when Ian stepped through that front door.

Yeah—he fucked up. No use denying it. But there was a reason, a real one: pressure. From his family. From society.

A carnivore dating an herbivore? That wasn't just frowned upon—it was a walking punchline, a setup for failure. Friends? Maybe. Coworkers? Sure. But lovers? That kind of bond demanded armor. Because the backlash wouldn't be quiet. It wouldn't be clean. It would come in waves and it would leave bruises.

He still hears his dad's voice the day he found out Ian was dating a sheep. An herbivore. "You're a goddamn disgrace.""This better be a phase." Words that left Ian somewhere between disbelief and rage. His mom didn't say much—just turned her face away. Not out of apathy, but because a part of her knew what it meant to keep walking that path.

He steps out of the car, shuts the door with a soft clunk, and climbs onto the hood like he's done it a hundred times before. That lazy, cocky pose—arms draped, muscles tensed just enough, lips curved into that too-knowing smirk. The kind of look that used to get him in trouble. Or into someone's bed.

The front door creaks open and Ian's smile stretches.

Always on time... he thinks, like it's a private joke only he's allowed to enjoy. He knows everything—shifts, grocery stops, the exact corner store hit when needing a six-pack and quiet.

Is it stalking? Not really.

Is it obsessive? Maybe. But it's all for the greater good.

"Hey, honey," he calls out, smooth as velvet. "Where you headed lookin' that fine?"

He holds back the urge to cross the lawn and kiss the breath right out. No, not yet. That part comes later.

He's got one mission now: win back, no matter the cost. Because even if he cheated once, his feelings never changed. Not really.

Every piece of clothing has been picked with obsessive precision—just enough tease, just enough threat.

That burnt orange tank top hugging his broad shoulders, leaving those thick biceps shamelessly exposed. The jeans? Low-slung and tight in all the right places, riding his hips like they knew they had a job to do. And the sneakers—his best pair, white and clean, because even seduction deserves a good sole.

It's the perfect outfit for what he thinks should be a perfect win.

Calculated. Composed.

A slow-motion re-conquest, dressed to kill—or, at least, to make stop and stare a second too long.

"Aren't you glad to see your big bad wolf again, my love?" His voice is purring, intending to show off his best tone dedicated only to him.