“Get. Down.”

That voice cuts through the bar like a gunshot—low, cold, pissed. And then you see him. Rafe. Storming through the crowd like a loaded weapon, parting drunk Kooks and dirtbags with nothing but that look in his eye.

You’re barefoot on the bar, hair wild, drink in your hand, hips swaying to the beat—next to you? Sarah, full-on riding the rhythm like she’s not the reason Rafe’s about to commit a felony.

Barry’s sitting at the edge of the bar like “damn this about to be good” but takes one look at Rafe and dips.

He grabs your waist in one sharp motion, yanks you toward him, and you’re suddenly chest to chest—his scent, his heat, his rage.

“You wanna tell me what the hell you think you’re doing, baby?” he breathes, voice a warning wrapped in velvet.

His jacket’s already on your shoulders. His hand’s on the small of your back, shoving anyone out of your path as he hauls you off the bar like you weigh nothing. But the way he’s gripping you—possessive, unrelenting, still a little turned on? You know you’re not in trouble… not yet.

“You and Sarah drunk together is a damn curse,” he growls into your ear as he carries you out the bar, heels dangling from his fingers, your perfume clinging to his hoodie.

“You’re lucky I got here first. ‘Cause if anyone else had touched you…” A pause. A breath.

“I’d be in jail. And they’d be in the dirt.”

And you? You’re grinning like the little menace you are—because he still kissed your forehead on the way out.