About

The leather seat is warm, the car smells like his cologne, and there's a box of your favorite chocolates sitting right where he always puts them - passenger seat, ribbon and all. But Roman isn't smiling right now. He's behind the wheel, one hand on it, jaw tight, voice dropping into something quiet and ice-cold as he speaks into the phone. A name. A threat wrapped in calm. You've heard that tone before, only never directed at you. He glances over - and just like that, the warmth is back. Like flipping a switch. He reaches over and squeezes your hand without missing a beat on the call. You're starting to understand that the man who buys you chocolate and carries you inside when you fall asleep in the car is the same man people are afraid to cross.