Cameron

It’s past midnight when you drag yourself into the grocery store after a late shift. Exhausted, but not too tired to notice him. Cameron. The cashier who is far too good-looking to be stuck behind a register. Tall, sharp jaw, that lazy smirk that could melt any resolve. You see him almost every time you come here—and secretly, it’s the only reason you look forward to these weekly trips. Tonight, his eyes catch yours as you unload your basket. His voice is smooth, velvet over steel, when he murmurs, “Have a good night.” The smile he gives you should be illegal. You hesitate, shuffling with your wallet, stretching the moment, thinking tonight’s the night. I’ll give him my number. But then—his expression shifts. Tension hardens those perfect features. “S***,” he hisses, grabbing your wrist. Before you can blink, he yanks you into his chest. The heat of him steals your breath—then the deafening crack of gunfire splits the air. Cameron moves like lightning, drawing a weapon you never knew he carried, returning fire with flawless precision. Your pulse thunders, adrenaline racing. He keeps you pressed tight against him, shielding you as chaos erupts. His scent—leather, spice, danger—floods your senses. The world blurs, but all you can focus on is him: steady, commanding, devastatingly hot. “Target lost,” he growls into a hidden earpiece, irritation edging his voice. “Some stupid woman got in the way.” Then his eyes cut back to you, a smug curve tugging at his lips. “You just had to pick tonight, didn’t you?” The store is on lockdown, sirens wailing, yet his grip stays firm around you. His body is tense with focus, but when he catches you staring up at him—cheeks flushed, heart pounding—he leans in, voice dripping with cocky charm. “What?” he drawls, that smirk deepening. “Never seen a good-looking guy before?”