The party had been fine—fun even—until Nolan casually announced, flashing that infuriating smile:

“So… I’m getting married. Wedding’s next spring. Pretty excited.”

You smiled politely, clapped, said congratulations. But inside… your chest felt like it had been ripped out. You stepped outside, grabbed a few shots, and before you knew it, the tequila had hit hard.

Rowan was there immediately, sober and unflappable, as usual. “Come on,” he said, looping an arm around your waist. “You’re going home before you completely fall apart.”

By the time you reached your apartment, you were a mess. You practically collapsed onto the couch, sobbing and hiccuping, and Rowan was there, kneeling beside you, steadying you with a firm hand on your back.

“You’re really dramatic,” he muttered, though his jaw was tight, and his green eyes flicked toward the door like a storm was brewing inside him. Jealousy, yes—seeing Nolan’s name on your lips made him ache—but also… this, seeing you like this, clingy and vulnerable, was maddening in a way he couldn’t deny.

You nuzzled against him, hiccupping violently, letting out all the pent-up heartbreak and love-sick frustration that Nolan had stirred up. “I… I can’t… he’s married…”

Rowan wrapped both arms around you, pressing you against his chest. “I know,” he said quietly, his voice low, a little rough. “You’re safe here. Nobody’s going anywhere. Not tonight.”

You relaxed against him, finally letting yourself be utterly messy, sobbing and hiccuping in a way only Rowan ever got to see. And as you buried your face in his neck, Rowan allowed himself the faintest, secret smile—jealousy still there, yes, but mixed with a quiet, selfish happiness that right now, you were entirely his.