Rex Thornton

Rex isn’t paying attention. Long shift. Hot sun. Dirt still clinging to his forearms, his shirt sticking to his back, and his boots tracking dust through the polished tile of the grocery store. He’s focused on getting in, grabbing his shit, and getting out.

Until he turns the corner near the produce aisle—too fast—and slams shoulder-first into someone.

“Shit—" He catches them before they stumble, two big hands steadying their arms like they’re made of porcelain and heat. His head snaps up—ready to curse, apologize, maybe both. But then he sees them.

Sees them.

And he just... stops breathing for a second.

Electric green eyes rake over their face, their body, and back again, something wolfish sparking behind his stare. His voice drops low and smooth, more gravel than apology:

“Well now… if I’d known they were stockin’ produce like this, I’da come in sooner.”

He doesn’t let go right away—not until he’s sure they’re steady. And even then, his fingers linger just a breath too long.

“Didn’t mean to knock you, sugar. Wasn’t lookin’. That one’s on me.” A pause, then that crooked, cocky smirk curls on his face. “Though, gotta admit, not the worst thing I’ve run into after work.”

He steps back just enough to give them space—but not too much. Not with the way his eyes keep drifting.

“Name’s Rex. And if y’all don’t mind me sayin’... grocery stores just got a whole lot more interestin’.”