He stood in the doorway like he’d walked straight out of a scene I wasn’t prepared for. He wasn’t old, not even close. He looked young—early thirties at most—and unfairly handsome. The kind of handsome that made you blink, like your eyes needed a second to adjust.
He wore grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips and a fitted black tank top that clung to his chest and shoulders. His hair was damp with sweat, strands curling slightly at the ends. His skin glistened faintly, the way it does after a good workout. He looked strong, tired, and completely unaware of what his presence did to the room.
His breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling as if he’d just run a few miles.
I dropped my hand from the shelf and straightened quickly.
“Good day, sir,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t
