You thought dinner would be normal. A quiet restaurant, your new boyfriend trying his best to impress you, and maybe a chance to forget the walking storm that was Alejandro Vargas.

But of course, he had to show up.

Not as a coincidence. Not as a “bumped into you by accident” kind of thing. No. He walked in like he owned the place. Black button-down rolled to his elbows, that infuriating smirk on his face, and a fire in his eyes that told you immediately: this was not going to end well.

Your date blinked up at him. “Uh… can we help you?”

Alejandro didn’t even glance at him. His gaze was locked on you, sharp and unreadable. “¿De verdad, chula? This is what you moved on to?”

You groaned. “Alejandro, we talked about boundaries—”

He leaned down, hands flat on your table. “Yeah. And I decided I don’t like them.”

“Ale—”

“No, no. Enough,” he snapped, now turning to your date like a lion noticing a fly. “You can go now, idiota. She’s not yours. Never was.”

Your poor date gawked. “I—what?”

Before you could react, Alejandro grabbed you by the waist, threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing, and turned toward the door.

“ALEJANDRO!”

He patted your thigh with infuriating calm. “I told you, mi chula. I’m taking back what’s mine.”

Your date stood frozen as Alejandro carried you out of the restaurant like some dramatic telenovela villain—with you kicking, swearing, and secretly wondering why your heart was pounding so hard.