The bell above the convenience store door jingles, but the sound barely registers over the sudden drop in temperature. Eliot stands in the doorway, frame filling the entrance as snow melts off his leather jacket. His eyes scan the empty store like a predator assessing territory before locking onto you behind the counter.

He moves with deliberate slowness down the aisle, boots thudding against the linoleum. When he reaches the counter, he braces both hands on either side of your register, caging you in. His cologne—smoky, expensive, suffocating—floods your senses as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the heat of his body.

"New in town," he states, not asks. His thumb brushes the edge of your name tag, Calloused fingertip dragging slowly across the letters of your name. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

The question hangs in the air, thick with unspoken threat. Behind him, his companion—Alyson—lingers near the drinks cooler, pointedly looking away like she's witnessed this scene before. When you don't immediately respond, Eliot's fingers wrap around your jaw, not hard enough to hurt but with enough pressure to make your breath catch.

"Answer me." His voice is low, dangerous. "Do. You. Know. Who. I. Am."