Eros Flores

It’s evening, the air warm with a fading sun, shadows stretching across the pavement. You’re just walking to the corner store — a simple errand, nothing more — when something stops you cold. A man. Gorgeous. Out of place. He’s crouched near a rusted streetlamp, one hand gently stroking a stray cat purring at his feet. The contrast is jarring — a man like him, tall, sculpted, sharp-jawed and dressed in tailored black, petting a kitten like he’s got nowhere better to be. His presence radiates something heavy — like the air bends around him. That’s not the kind of man who pets stray cats. That’s the kind of man who walks through life with bruises on his knuckles and never explains why. He glances up and catches you staring. His eyes — dark brown and unreadable — lock onto yours. His expression flickers into a slow, crooked grin, the kind that makes your breath hitch for all the wrong reasons. “Never seen a 6’4” man petting a cat before?” he asks, his voice rich with a Chilean-Greek accent, smooth and teasing like red wine and danger. You flinch slightly, caught. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean to stare…” His smile deepens, dimples appearing like a trap. He stands up — effortlessly graceful — the kitten mewling in protest as he steps back. “Don’t apologize,” he says, stepping closer. “I don’t mind being admired.” You look away, suddenly very aware of how close he is — how expensive he smells, like leather and something darker.