The bass rattled the disco walls, neon lights slicing through smoky air. You swayed to the music, cocktail in hand, laughing freely.

Spencer stood at the entrance, his jaw clenched, scanning the crowd. He wasn’t supposed to be here—he hated places like this. But your casual text, “Out tonight. Don’t wait up.” had been gnawing at him. Casual, like your so-called agreement.

He spotted you quickly—center of attention, laughing, your hips moving to the beat. And then he saw him.

Some guy leaned in, too close, saying something that made you laugh harder. Spencer’s chest tightened, his fists clenching as jealousy flared. He didn’t think—he just acted.

“Hey!” Spencer’s voice cut through the music, sharp and demanding.

You froze mid-laugh, turning to find him standing there, his eyes stormy. The guy beside you looked confused but stayed put.

“Spencer?” you asked, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“Funny,” he snapped, his gaze flicking to the guy. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I’m dancing,” you said, defensive, crossing your arms. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like you’re busy,” he bit out, his glare locked on the man. “With him.”

The guy shifted uneasily. “Uh, do you two need a minute?”

“Yeah, we do,” Spencer said coldly. The man backed off without another word.

“Seriously?” you said, incredulous. “What the hell was that?”

“What the hell is this?” he shot back, gesturing toward the dance floor. “You didn’t tell me you’d be here. Or that you’d be—” He exhaled sharply. “Whatever that was.”

You stared at him, your eyebrows raised. You weren’t dating, weren’t anything official, and yet here he was, acting like he had some claim over you.