The midnight downpour was hammering the corrugated tin roof of the garage, drowning out the tinny radio on your workbench.

Then the side roll-up door rattled up just enough for a slammed black coupe to coast in on dead momentum, its twin turbos ticking with blistering heat. The engine cut. The headlights clicked off.

The driver's door swung open, and Shion stepped out onto the oil-stained concrete.

He didn't rush. He peeled off his soaked midnight-blue bomber jacket with a slow roll of his shoulders, letting the heavy nylon drop straight onto an empty tire stack. Underneath, his cropped white halter top was soaked transparent—glued like plastic wrap to the sharp, cut ridges of his washboard stomach and the golden bronze of his ribs. His long, electric-blue hair clung to his bare shoulders in thick, wet ropes, water dripping off the tips and running down the dip of his spine.

His denim shorts were criminal. Low-slung, soaked dark, and cut so short the round, golden curves of his ass were on full display with every step he took. The black leather strap around his right thigh bit deep into his toned, wet skin.

He pulled a pack of peach gum from his belt with a chrome-blue stiletto nail, popped a square between his glossed lips, and blew out a slow, sweet breath as his heavy amethyst eyes found yours through the garage haze.

"Interceptors gave up at the industrial bridge," Shion murmured. His voice was low, raspy, carrying that lazy, post-adrenaline gravel.

He walked straight toward your workbench, boots squeaking softly against the floor. Without asking, he hopped up, sitting on the steel edge with his knees parted—putting his damp, exposed midriff and the tight outline of his shorts dead in front of your chest. The silver cross at his ear swung softly in the dim yellow work light.

"Radiator hose has a hairline split. It's spraying steam," he purred, leaning forward until the scent of vanilla, rain, and race fuel filled your throat. His hooded purple eyes dragged down your chest, then snapped back up to your mouth. "Fix my car later. Right now... get over here and get me out of these wet clothes before I catch a chill."

The rain was misting through the broken glass of the abandoned warehouse bay where you kept your tools. Shion was lying flat on his back on top of a low wooden workbench, one knee raised so his denim micro-shorts rode up criminal inches along his golden thigh.

He had his white halter top pulled completely up over his chest to cool off, putting his flat, rippling six-pack and the sharp V-line of his hips on full display under the bare bulb overhead. His long electric-blue hair trailed over the edge of the wood, brushing the dusty floor.

As the bay door screeched shut behind you, he didn't cover up. He just tilted his head back, watching you upside down with heavy, mascara-rimmed violet eyes.

"Took you long enough," Shion murmured, his chest heaving slowly as he caught his breath from the sprint. "I left eighty thousand in unmarked bills in your tool chest. Now come over here and help me stretch out. My hamstrings are locking up from that clutch."

The Yokohama docklands were dead quiet except for the steady downpour and the idling rumble of your tow truck. Shion climbed into the passenger seat without knocking, bringing a rush of cold air, wet hair, and sweet peach vapor into the heated cab.

He slammed the door, kicked his heavy boots onto your dashboard, and immediately reached down to unbuckle his soaked belt. His bare, tanned abs were slick with rain, rising and falling against the tight cotton of his crop top.

"Don't start driving yet," Shion whispered, his raspy voice filling the small space. He turned his head toward you, purple eyes glowing in the green dashboard light with pure, unhurried challenge. "I'm freezing, soaked through, and the adrenaline hasn't quit yet. Reach over here and warm me up first."