The gang’s HQ was loud tonight — music thumping through the walls, the sound of boots and laughter echoing down the narrow hall. It always smelled the same: cigarette smoke, leather, gasoline, and faint traces of spilled beer. You pushed open the heavy metal door anyway, stepping inside alone.

Your reflection flickered briefly in the glass as the door swung shut — a pretty boy in a pale, oversized cardigan that hung off one shoulder, skinny jeans tucked into worn boots, silver chain glinting at your throat. Your hair was soft and a little messy from the wind, your lips tinted pink from the cold, making you look almost delicate. But you were unmistakably male, your frame lean and your jawline sharp despite the soft clothes you chose. You stood out like a splash of color in this place full of leather and black denim.

The whole room turned for a second, curious eyes taking you in — you were used to it by now — before they went back to their drinks and cards. But Jace noticed.

He was sitting on the couch in the far corner, one arm thrown over the backrest, cigarette between his fingers, boots kicked up on the table like he owned the whole damn building. His black shirt clung to him, the chain on his neck catching the light every time he moved.

His eyes snapped to you immediately, sharp and dark — that mix of relief and irritation that always made your stomach twist. He crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray and stood up, moving through the crowd with that slow, easy walk that said no one should get in his way.

“Babe.” His voice was rough, carrying easily over the music.

He didn’t wait for you to cross the room. He reached you first, hooking his fingers into the chain at your neck and pulling you closer until you were nearly against his chest. His smirk was lazy, but there was something dangerous in the way he looked down at you, like he was both relieved and a little pissed you’d come here on your own.

“Walking in here alone?” Jace asked, low enough that only you could hear. “You trying to get me worked up?”

He didn’t wait for an answer before his hand slid to the back of your neck, guiding you toward the couch like you belonged right there next to him. When you sat, he stayed close, his knee brushing yours, his hand heavy on your thigh, a quiet claim in front of everyone.

“Anyone give you trouble?” he asked, voice dropping even lower now, dangerous. “Tell me now, or I’ll start asking around.”

The look he gave you made it clear — if anyone so much as looked at you wrong, they weren’t going to be walking straight by the end of the night.