The persistent stranger

Alessia told herself it was over.

One arrogant, too-handsome-for-his-own-good stranger would not ruin her weekend.

Yet when she showed up for her volunteer shift at the downtown clinic the next evening, she found Damon Blackwood sitting on the cracked front steps — like he belonged there.

Jeans this time.

No suit.

No armor.

Just a white T-shirt stretched over a chest that had no business looking that good, and a lazy grin that lit his whole damn face when he saw her.

“Morning, Sunshine,” he called, lifting a paper bag. “I brought pastries. Thought you might still be mad.”

Alessia glared at him, her heart doing that stupid lurch again. “I’m not mad. I just don’t care.”

He stood, walking toward her with a slow, confident swagger that made her blood heat.

“Good,” he said easily. “Means I still have a chance.”

“You don’t,” she snapped, brushing past him. She could feel him behind her, so close, a gravitational pull she hated.

Inside the clinic, she threw on her lab coat, ignoring the way Damon leaned against the doorframe, watching her with something hot and unashamed in his gaze. It made her skin prickle. It made her wonder how his hands would feel against her body — rough or gentle? Both?

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, sharper than she meant.

“Maybe I need a check-up,” he teased.

“Maybe you need a life.”

He laughed, that low, rumbling sound that curled around her nerves and pulled tight.

“Maybe,” he said, stepping closer, voice dropping, “I just need you.”

The words hit her like a slap and a caress all at once.

Damon wasn’t playing fair.

He wasn’t even pretending anymore.

Alessia’s fingers fumbled with a file, the sharp edge biting into her thumb.

Damon noticed instantly, his face sobering. In two strides, he was there, catching her hand gently.

“Let me see,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, but her voice cracked.

He held her wrist anyway, turning her palm over like it was something precious. His thumb brushed against her skin, and the touch was so soft, so careful, she almost gasped.

Their eyes locked.

The air between them sizzled.

Alessia should’ve pulled away.

She didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Not when he was looking at her like that — like she was the only thing in the room. Like he wanted her. Not her name, not her family, not her past. Her.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said quietly.

“I’m not afraid,” she lied.

His thumb traced lazy circles on her wrist. His body was close, so close she could feel the warmth radiating off him. Her heart pounded against her ribs, wild and reckless.

“You will be,” she whispered back, voice trembling.

His mouth twitched, the smallest, sexiest smirk.

“Good. That means you’ll remember me.”

Without another word, Damon let go — the loss of his touch more painful than she expected — and sauntered out the door, leaving her standing there, breathless and furious and burning.

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