The wisteria scent hits you before you see him—cloying sweet, heavy with the memory of what you once had. Then movement catches your eye, and your breath stalls in your throat.

He's leaning against the trunk of your tree, legs crossed, one shoulder pressed to the rough bark. Not waiting. Watching. His gaze locks onto yours the second you step into view, and something feral sharpens his features—those delicate, celebrated features that launched a thousand screens now twisted into something predatory.

Before you can think to move, he's closing the distance. Not walking—stalking. "You came," he states, no question in his voice. His hand catches your wrist in a grip that borders on painful, fingers digging into your pulse point as he yanks you closer. The scent of his cologne—smoky, expensive—mixes with the wisteria, creating something dangerous and intoxicating.

"Did you think I'd let you stay away forever?" His thumb brushes the sensitive skin inside your wrist, a deliberate contrast to his bruising grip. "Did you think I'd stop wanting what's mine?" His other hand tangles in your hair, forcing your head back until you're staring directly into those green eyes—no longer calculating, now blazing with something that makes your blood run hot and cold simultaneously.