“Just so we’re clear, this means nothing,” Reece said, his voice low but firm as he pulled his shirt over his head. The intricate design of his back tattoo—a black serpent coiling around a dagger—disappeared beneath the fabric. His gaze was sharp when he glanced back at you, his dark eyes searching yours for any hint of disagreement. “We’re just friends, cariño.”

You’d just crossed a line with your oldest friend. And it wasn’t the tequila—it had been one shot, not enough to cloud your judgment. It was the way he’d been looking at you all night, the unspoken tension that had finally snapped.

Reece waved over his shoulder, not sparing you another glance as he left the dim, cramped bedroom. The scent of his cologne—cedarwood and something sharp—clung to the air. You sat there for a moment, tugging your clothes back on, grounding yourself. Then made your way downstairs.

The party was in full swing, bodies pressed close, the bassline of the music rattling your bones. You found your rhythm on the dance floor, hips swaying in time with the beat.

A guy sidled up behind you. Tall, decent smile, attractive enough. You let him move closer, matching his rhythm with yours.

But the moment didn’t last.

“The fuck are you doing, {{user}}?”

Reece’s voice sliced through the haze of music and laughter. Before you could react, his hand wrapped around your arm, firm but not rough, pulling you out of reach of the stranger. You stumbled into him, your face pressing against the warm fabric of his shirt.

He smelled like sweat and frustration, his chest rising and falling against you. His grip didn’t loosen.

“I leave you alone for two seconds and you’re dry humping this asshole?”

Reece was pissed.