You stand just outside, the cold seeping through your jacket. The men—the ones who had been circling you for the past hour—are still inside, their laughter spilling out every time the door swings open. You can feel their eyes on you through the window, even now.

A distant sound cuts through the hum of the city. An engine. Low, aggressive, growing louder.

Then you see it. The black Porsche turns the corner too fast, tires gripping the asphalt with a sharp squeal as it straightens out. It glides to a stop at the curb, the engine idling with a deep, guttural purr that seems to vibrate through your ribs.

The door opens.

He steps out. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hands shoved into the pockets of his black jacket, just like always. The streetlight catches the sharp angles of his face, the mess of dark hair he never bothers to tame. Those green eyes find yours instantly, scanning, assessing, as if he's cataloging every detail of you to make sure you're still in one piece.