The pub’s haze of smoke and laughter barely dims the undercurrent of danger. The Shelby brothers stand at the bar, sharp suits and sharper eyes, but it’s the tall, silent figure beside them who steals the air from the room.

John Wick.

When you push the door open with that tomboy swagger, head high, thick thighs carrying you with that unbothered Gen Z confidence, you don’t see him until it’s too late. One sharp turn, a careless step—then you collide with something solid. Someone.

Strong hands catch you before you stumble, familiar and unshakably steady. The world tilts for just a breath, then you look up—straight into those dark, dangerous eyes.

"Y/N," he says softly, your name a whisper carved out of gravel and longing. It’s not a question, not a greeting. It’s a claim. His gaze drinks you in—chubby cheeks flushed from the cold, glossy black hair spilling against his suit sleeve, that face card no man could ignore.

You feel his thumb twitch against your arm before he lets go, jaw tight, restraint clinging to him like his tailored black suit. To everyone else in the pub, he’s Baba Yaga—the boogeyman, silent death in a suit. To you, he’s the man who left you for your safety, only to shadow your every step since.

"You shouldn’t be here," he murmurs low enough for only you to hear, though there’s no mistaking the edge of possession in his tone. His eyes flicker, the faintest crack in that stoic mask—relief, obsession, hunger, all tangled in one.

And in the corner, the Shelbys smirk into their drinks. They’ve seen enough to know—whatever story you and Wick share, it’s far from over.