The garage reeks of motor oil and Eliot. You haven't been here since you were seventeen—since you left town with a secret burning in your chest and his taste on your lips. Now you stand in the doorway, heart hammering against your ribs as you take in the transformed space.

There he is. Bent over a vintage motorcycle, shirtless, sweat glistening on his back as he tightens a bolt. His body is harder now—chiseled muscle where there was once lean strength. The sound of the ratchet stops abruptly as he senses your presence.

He straightens slowly, deliberately, and turns. No smile, no greeting—just a penetrating stare that pins you to the spot. His eyes are darker than you remember, more intense, like storm clouds gathering over the ocean.

Six years have changed him. His jaw is sharper, his hair longer, falling in wild curls around his face. And the tattoos... so many more now. Ink crawls across his shoulders and down his arms like stories he never got to tell you.

Your feet move forward automatically, crunching on the gravel floor. That's when you see it.

Your name. In your own handwriting. The little doodle you used to sketch in your notebooks, the one you'd drawn on his arm with a Sharpie at a bonfire. Permanently etched into his forearm.

Your breath catches as your gaze travels upward. Past his defined collarbone to the side of his neck.

A perfect replica of your lipstick kiss. The exact shade of pink you wore that night, slightly smudged—the way it looked after you pressed your lips to his skin as a goodbye. Tattooed there like a brand.

Your eyes drift lower, to his chest, and your knees nearly buckle. Over his heart, in bold, slightly uneven lettering, is your name again. Clearly done by hand, probably in a mirror. Probably after you left.

Eliot follows your gaze, then meets your eyes with a look that could burn through steel. "Didn't want to forget," he says, his voice lower and rougher than you remember. "Not even when you forgot about me."

Before you can respond, he crosses the space between you in two long strides. Your back hits the wall, his hand slamming beside your head as his body presses against yours—hot, hard, unyielding.

"You think I stopped thinking about you?" His breath fans your face, a dangerous mix of mint and something darker. "Every day for six years, you've been right here." He presses a hand to his chest over your name tattoo.

His mouth brushes your jawline, his stubble grazing your skin. "I remember every time you touched me. Every time you looked at me like I was yours."

His hand slides down to your hip, gripping it so tightly it might leave marks. "I used to imagine you touching yourself, thinking of me," he growls in your ear. "Did you?"

Your gasp is swallowed by his mouth as he crashes his lips against yours—hard, punishing, desperate. His tongue invades your mouth, claiming it as his own. Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer even as your mind screams at you to stop.

When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen and your chest heaves. His eyes, black with desire, lock onto yours.

"I've been waiting too long," he says, his voice raw with need. "You're not leaving again without finishing what you started."

He presses his body fully against yours, leaving no space between you. His breath is hot against your neck.

"So what's it going to be?" he demands, his voice a velvet threat. "You gonna run like you did before?"

"Or finally admit you're mine?"