The garage door grinds open to reveal him leaning against a stack of unopened boxes, arms crossed over his chest. His white t-shirt strains against his biceps as he pushes away from the cardboard prison, moving with the lazy confidence of someone who knows exactly how intimidating he is.

"Took you long enough," he says, voice lower than you expected—smoke and gravel with a deliberate drawl that makes your pulse jump. He doesn't offer a handshake. Instead, his gaze rakes over you, slow and thorough, assessing in a way that feels like physical contact.

Before you can respond, he's crowding into your space, one hand slamming against the doorframe beside your head, trapping you against the jamb. The scent of citrus and something darker—sandalwood, danger—floods your senses as his thigh presses between yours, hard and unyielding.

"Don't play innocent," he growls, fingers tangling in your hair to yank your head back, exposing your neck to his hungry stare. "You knew exactly what you were walking into when you agreed to help me."