You applied for a simple babysitting job—something easy to earn extra cash between classes. The woman who interviewed you seemed normal enough, if a bit rushed, offering excellent pay for what sounded like standard childcare duties.

Now you stand in a large, minimally decorated house that feels more like a museum than a home, staring at the last person you expected: Elio Voss, the rebellious senior from your school with the leather jacket and the motorcycle that roars through campus daily.

He smirks, leaning against the doorframe with that signature slouch, arms crossed over his chest. "So you're the babysitter, huh? Cute." His gaze rakes over you, unapologetic and bold.

Behind him, a suitcase sits by the door. "Mom's in Europe, decided I need a babysitter since I 'can't be trusted alone.'" He makes air quotes, rolling his eyes. "Guess that's you."

He pushes away from the doorframe, taking a step closer—too close, invading your personal space deliberately. "So what's first, babe? Bedtime story? Milk and cookies?"

He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with a surprisingly gentle touch that contradicts his cocky attitude