The air in Amelia's apartment was still tinged with the scent of last night—rain-damp clothes, the faint trace of Dominic's cologne, and something heavier, more primal. Her lips still ached from his kiss. Her mind, however, was spinning.
She hadn't expected him to be gentle. But she hadn't expected vulnerability either. That mix—of danger wrapped in restraint—was enough to both frighten and fascinate her.
He hadn't texted her since that kiss. Not even a cryptic emoji or one of his signature half-sentences. That silence felt loud.
She needed distraction.
By mid-morning, Amelia found herself at her late father's house—a modest two-bedroom on the city's quieter edge, left untouched since his passing three years ago. Her therapist said revisiting his space could help her work through unresolved grief.
She didn't mention she was doing it now to run from something—or someone—else.
Dust hung in the air as she unlocked the door and stepped inside. The living room smelled the same: like old books and cedarwood polish. The silence here wasn't loud. It was comforting.
She made her way to the attic, a small crawlspace above the hallway. Her father had kept photos there, vinyl records, letters he'd never mailed. As she dug through one box marked "1990–2005", a familiar ache pressed behind her ribs.
She pulled out a photo album. Inside, glossy pictures stuck to faded black pages: birthday parties, vacations, graduation ceremonies. Her mother, glowing. Her father, awkward in every group shot. And her, wide-eyed and smiling—before she learned how fragile people could be.
She flipped to a photo from a New Year's Eve party. Her parents dancing. Champagne flutes raised. A crowd behind them, half-blurred.
She froze.
There—at the far left of the photo—was a man. Dressed in all black. Hands in his coat pockets. Watching the crowd, not part of it.
Her pulse slowed.
It wasn't clear enough to be certain, but the shape of his face, the posture… it looked like Dominic.
But that couldn't be. This photo was from 2006.
She took a picture of it with her phone, hands trembling slightly. She stared at it again.
Could it be a coincidence? A trick of light and memory?
Still, the seed of doubt was planted.
That evening, Amelia met Layla at a quiet café on the East End—one of their old favorites. Layla had been her best friend since college: wild where Amelia was cautious, brutally honest, and fiercely loyal.
Amelia pushed the photo across the table.
Layla squinted. "Okay, this is creepy."
"Right?" Amelia said. "But it's probably not him. I don't know. It's just… weird."
Layla tilted her head. "Babe, has he given you any real info about himself yet?"
"Bits. Pieces. Says he used to be in security. Not anymore."
Layla frowned. "You're sleeping with a walking red flag, and you're acting like it's a personality trait."
"We haven't slept together," Amelia said softly.
Layla blinked. "Seriously? You two are already breathing each other's air like you've skipped six months of dating."
"I know."
"And?"
"And I don't know how to stop."
Layla leaned back, expression softening.
"Okay. Look. I know you, Mel. You don't
unravel like this unless there's something real underneath. But obsession, secrets, danger? That's a cocktail you need to sip slow. Or you'll get burned."
When Amelia got home, she poured a glass of wine and sat on the couch with her phone in her lap.
No texts.
The photo was still open in her gallery. She zoomed in again. The resemblance was uncanny.
She debated. Then opened a secure browser and uploaded the image to a low-tier facial recognition site—nothing official, but sometimes accurate enough to pull up blog tags or social accounts.
The wheel spun.
Nothing.
She tried again with a crop of just his face.
Still nothing conclusive.
But on the third attempt, a partial hit popped up.
Alias: D. Grayson.
No photo. No public record. One breadcrumb: "Classified—DoD Internal Personnel File."
She sat very still.
Her father had served briefly in intelligence during his early career. That party had been filled with government types—Amelia barely remembered it, but he'd mentioned "top brass" visiting.
So what was Dominic doing there?
And why hadn't he mentioned knowing her father?
The doorbell rang. She startled.
It was him.
Dominic stood outside in a dark sweater, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable.
"I couldn't sleep," he said. "And I wanted to see you."
She stepped aside. Let him in. Wordless.
He looked around. "You've been somewhere."
"My dad's place."
His eyes sharpened. "Why?"
"Cleaning out old memories." She watched him closely. "Found something strange."
He glanced at her phone screen. She didn't hide it.
"You know," she said slowly, "you look a lot like a man in one of my dad's party photos. From 2006."
Dominic's jaw flexed. Just for a second.
"Coincidence, maybe," he said.
"Maybe."
Silence stretched.
Then he walked closer. Close enough that she could feel his breath, smell that clean smoke scent that always lingered around him.
"I've been careful," he said. "With what I say. With what I show you. Not because I want to lie. But because I don't want to lose this."
"You don't even know what this is."
He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "I know enough to want more of it."
The tension snapped tight. A dangerous gravity pulled between them.
He kissed her.
This time, it was slower. No urgency. No storm. Just heat and reverence and the ache of wanting something you weren't sure you deserved.
Her fingers curled in his shirt as he pressed her gently to the wall.
But just when she let herself fall—really fall—he pulled back.
"I should go," he whispered.
Her breath caught. "Why?"
"Because I don't want the truth to come between us before we have something worth protecting."
And before she could say a word, he was gone again.
Leaving behind the question that refused to stop echoing:
Who the hell are you, Dominic Grayson?