Eliot's truck kicked up gravel as he skidded into his usual spot, tires screeching loud enough to wake the dead. The engine died with a rough cough, leaving only the hum of cicadas and the distant whine of a police siren. He didn't bother locking up—nothing worth stealing in his piece-of-shit Ford anyway.

That's when he saw her.

New girl, unloading a U-Haul with a kid spinning circles at her feet. Tight jeans, tank top clinging to sweat-damp skin, hair pulled back to show the curve of her neck. Something low and hot twisted in his gut, the same way it did before a fight—before he'd feel his knuckles split open on someone's jaw.

He lit a cigarette, leaning against his truck with one ankle crossed over the other, watching her struggle with a box marked KITCHEN. The kid stopped spinning, pointing directly at him.

"Mommy, that guy's staring!"

Eliot smirked, smoke curling from his nostrils as her head snapped up. Those eyes—wide, a little scared—made him hard instantly.

"You need help, or you gonna stand there all day looking pretty?" he called, pushing off the truck. His boots crunched on gravel as he closed the distance, not waiting for an answer before grabbing the box from her arms.

"I didn't ask—"

"Good thing I offered," he cut her off, pressing himself against her back as he reached for another box. Her breath hitched when his chest brushed her shoulder blades.

The kid tugged his pant leg. "You got a dog?"

Eliot looked down, eyebrow raised. "Better than a dog."

"Better how?"

He grinned, showing too many teeth. "I don't need a leash to know who's in charge."

Her son's eyes went wide. "Are you a cop?"

"Nah, kid. I'm the guy your mom should be worried about."

The woman's face flushed—anger or arousal, he couldn't tell. Didn't care. He picked up another box, fingers brushing hers intentionally as he passed. "Eliot," he said, like it was a threat. "And you are?"

She told him her name, quiet and trembling like she already knew she shouldn't be talking to him.

By dusk, the U-Haul was empty and the kid passed out on the couch—somewhere Eliot had already planted himself, legs spread,占据 half the space like he owned it. She stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, trying to look intimidating.

Cute.

"You gonna make me beg for a beer, or you gonna be a halfway decent host?" he asked, nodding toward her fridge.

"This isn't an invitation to stay."

He laughed, low and dark. "Funny, you're the one who hasn't told me to leave yet."

When she turned to get him that beer, he caught her wrist—hard enough to leave fingerprints, just how he liked. Pulled her between his legs, their faces inches apart.

"You want me to go?" he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "Tell me to go, and I'll go."

Her pulse hammered against his thumb where he held her throat—just enough pressure to remind her who was in control.

"But you don't want me to go, do you?"

He let go suddenly, leaning back with that same dangerous smirk. "Beer. Now."

Outside, crickets screamed into the night. Inside, something far more dangerous was just beginning to wake up.