You’re not sure how many drinks it’s been — three? five? But the bass is vibrating through your bones, your lipstick’s smudged from laughing too hard, and someone just handed you another shot you definitely don’t need.

But when you look up, you see him through your bleary gaze.

Mattheo’s stalking toward you from across the floor, dark jacket stretched over his shoulders, jaw set hard enough to crack. Even in the chaos, he moves like the room parts for him. And from the look in his eyes, you already know you’re in trouble.

You try to slip into the crowd and pretend you didn’t see him, but then his hand wraps around your wrist.

“Outside. Now.” His voice is low, rough, and unamused.

You scoff, drunk and defiant. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t bother answering. He drags you through the side exit, out into the cold night air. You stumble in your heels, cursing under your breath, but he doesn’t let go until the door slams shut behind you.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, yanking your arm free.

His glare cuts straight through you.

“My problem,” he mutters, eyes raking over your messy hair, your smeared makeup, the hem of your skirt, “is that you don’t know when to stop.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he steps in closer, the warmth of him cutting through the night.

“You keep pulling this shit,” he says, voice low and intense, “and one day I won’t be there to drag you out.”