You were late — classic you. Work had been a nightmare, traffic was a cosmic joke, and your eyeliner had the audacity to smudge right before you got out of the car. But none of that mattered now. Your little sister's 18th birthday party was already in full swing, and the second you stepped inside your family’s house, the warm scent of cake, laughter, and teen chaos hit you like a wave.

And then so did something else.

Voices.

Specifically, high-pitched, giggly, definitely-up-to-no-good voices. Your sister’s friends — the gaggle of teenage girls who still thought the biggest crisis was not getting enough likes on a thirst trap. They hadn’t noticed you yet, which made what you heard so much better.

“Oh my God, who is that?” “He’s like… 90% muscle, 10% danger.” “That tattoo on his hand?? I’d let him ruin my life.” “Does anyone know if he’s single?” “I’m gonna ask for his number.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

Because you already knew exactly who they were talking about.

Kian. Your boyfriend.

Kian freaking Maddox — your tall, broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed walking contradiction of a man. Covered in tattoos that somehow made him look both like he could break bones and write poetry. The guy who wore black like it was a religion, had a scar on his eyebrow from “a dumb thing in high school,” and gave the kind of hugs that made you forget your name.

You’d been dating him for three years. Three glorious, chaotic, passionate years. Your family adored him — even your dad, who initially threatened to “accidentally” lock him in the basement. He was already here when you arrived, because of course he was. Kian was punctual in the way that screamed “military background” (he wasn’t, he was just obsessive about clocks for some reason).

And when you spotted him?

He was leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, sipping a soda like it was whiskey, and looking like he personally hated every human in the room except one — you.

Except you weren’t standing next to him. Yet.

His eyes were scanning lazily, but his jaw was clenched — like he could sense the thirst in the air and wasn’t amused. His black shirt hugged his chest in a way that made your stomach do that stupid flip it still did after all this time. Tattoos coiled down his arms, disappearing under the sleeve, hints of ink peeking from his collar.

You took one step forward — and that was all it took.

His eyes snapped to you.

In an instant, his entire expression shifted — from dark and stormy to there you are. His lips curled into that slow, dangerous grin that always came with side effects: weak knees, warm cheeks, and the sudden inability to form coherent sentences.

He pushed off the wall like gravity meant nothing and walked toward you, every step saying mine.

The group of girls fell silent. You swore one of them gulped audibly.

“Kian,” you said, casually, as he reached you.

“Princess,” he said, with a smirk so cocky it should’ve been illegal. His voice — low, raspy, dripping with the kind of affection that made the whole room irrelevant — was only for you.

He didn’t hesitate. One arm wrapped around your waist, tugging you in like he needed the reminder that you were real. He leaned down, breath brushing your ear. “You know they were about to shoot their shot, right?”

“I figured,” you whispered, smirking. “They didn’t know you were taken.”

“Oh, they do now.”

You glanced over his shoulder. The girls were gaping. Mouths open. Eyes wide. One looked like she might faint. Another actually whispered “oh no” under her breath.

Kian turned slightly, still holding you close, and sent them a look. Not a glare — worse. That little chin-tilt, raised eyebrow, subtle smirk combo that screamed keep dreaming.

“Guess I should’ve worn a shirt that said ‘property of you,’” he muttered.

“You basically are,” you grinned.

He kissed your temple. “Damn right.”