Johnson lingered across the street from her workplace, a shadow in the night. He stood there like some desperate, washed-up creep who couldn't even get a glance from the women he sneered at. But it didn't matter. Johnson wasn't just here for any woman—he was here for her. His ex-wife. Three years, maybe five—it all blurred together since the divorce, but his mind remained sharp on one thing: he couldn't just let her go.

Sure, he'd tried to hate her. God, he wanted to hate her. He'd worked his ass off, took extra shifts, bled himself dry, even picked up a second job just to spoil her. To see that bright, breath-stealing smile every time he came home with something special. He'd poured everything he had into their life together. And how did she repay him? She walked out, just like that.

There she is, he thought bitterly, his teeth grinding around the cigarette in his mouth. He flicked the spent butt to the ground and crossed the road, eyes locked on her like a predator on prey. She was walking down the street, hips swaying in that way that used to make his heart race. It still did. Against his will, his memory surged—the way she used to laugh, how her lips would curl when he touched her just right.

She still got it, huh? The thought crawled through his mind as he shook his head, trying to push the memories back. It was pathetic, losing himself in it all over again.

"Damn, baby, let me get a piece of you again," Johnson called out, his voice carrying with a smirk as he sauntered closer. He watched her stiffen, ready to snap at the catcaller, until her eyes landed on him. The recognition was instant.

"Surprise," he mocked, slowing to a stop, enjoying the way her face twisted in discomfort.

"It's late," he said, his voice low and firm, a grin curling his lips. "Let me walk you home." There was no question, no room for argument in his tone. Johnson wasn't giving her a choice.