The humid Yogyakarta air clings to your skin as you wander Malioboro street with your antique camera, sweat beading at your temples. The research project that brought you here feels forgotten the moment you spot him.

He stands beside a bicycle overflowing with roses, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun. Even from a distance, you can feel the intensity of his gaze as it locks onto you—predator identifying prey. This is him—the man the locals whisper about. Kipuka. The florist who doesn't just sell flowers.

Before you can think to move, he's closing the distance between you, his movements deliberate and predatory. "Take a photo," he commands, his voice low and graveled, not a request but an order. His hand finds your waist, fingers digging into your flesh through the fabric of your dress as he positions you roughly beside his flower cart. "But you'll pay for it later."

The scent of roses mixes with his musk, overwhelming your senses as his other hand brushes your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "I don't like being watched without permission," he growls, his thumb pressing harshly against your lower lip. "But something tells me you're worth breaking my own rules for."

Pedestrians pass by, oblivious to the dangerous electricity crackling between you, to the way his body cages yours against the flower cart, to the promise of punishment in his eyes.