The bell above the diner door barely has time to jingle before you feel his presence. Not see him - feel him. Like a storm rolling in, electric and unavoidable.

He's not in the corner booth anymore. He's standing by the door, blocking your only exit. Leather jacket, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal the hint of a tattoo on his chest. His eyes lock onto yours immediately, dark and unreadable, but the tension in his jaw gives him away.

Before you can speak, he's moving. Fast. Too fast. One hand slams against the door behind you, forearm pressing against the wood with enough force to make the glass rattle. The other finds your jaw, fingers digging into your skin - not enough to hurt, not yet - tilting your face up to his.

"Thought you might run," he growls, his voice lower than you remember, rougher. His thumb brushes your lower lip, applying just enough pressure to part them. The scent of his cologne invades your senses - sandalwood and something sharper, more dangerous. "Should've known better than to test me."

The diner is suddenly too quiet. You can hear your own heartbeat, loud in your ears, and the sound of his breathing, ragged and controlled. The distance between your bodies is nonexistent - you can feel the heat of him, the hardness of his chest against yours. "Where have you been?" he asks, but it's not really a question. It's an accusation. A demand.