The bar was already buzzing when you walked in, the sound of low laughter and heavy boots on wood floors echoing off the walls. He didn’t bother waiting for you to catch up—just pushed through the crowd with that unshakable confidence, like he owned the place.

You muttered under your breath, “You could slow down—”

His grin flashed over his shoulder, infuriating and sharp. “ if you quit whining, you might keep up.””

You rolled your eyes but followed anyway, weaving after him until you reached the corner booth where three men sat—older, broad, and loud. The kind of men who looked like they’d been carved out of brick and cigarette smoke.

“Cole!” one barked, clapping him hard on the back. “Well, shit, look at you. Thought you got lost or finally settled down.”

The corner of his mouth curved, his arm slipping around your waist. He tugged you close, eyes glittering as he answered, “Settle down? Never.”

The men laughed, deep and rowdy. You forced a smile, but something inside you sank, sharp as a stone in water. Never. He’d said it like a fact, like a promise. You slipped out of his arm under the noise of their laughter.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” you murmured, but he was already raising his beer to his lips, too caught up in the reunion to notice.

The hallway was mercifully quieter, the bathroom’s dim light reflecting your frown back at you in the mirror. You hated how much it stung, hated that his casual words could gut you like that.

Back at the booth, the men noticed your absence before he did. One leaned back, nodding toward the bathroom. “She doesn’t look old enough to be putting up with your shit, Cole.”

He smirked, running a thumb over the rim of his glass. “She isn’t.” His voice was flat, certain. “That’s half the fun.”

The men roared, the table shaking with their laughter. He grinned with them, but when you returned, his head turned immediately. His eyes cut through the crowd, sharp, locking on you like a target.

The drinks came quick, and before you could even open your mouth, he ordered for you again. Something bright, citrusy, strong enough to burn the back of your throat. You made a face, setting the glass down.

“I didn’t say I wanted this,” you whispered.

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and patronizing. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’d pick the wrong one.”

You wanted to argue, but then his hand slid onto your thigh under the table, fingers squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. He didn’t even look at you—just kept talking, laughing, trading war stories, his touch the only thing grounding you in the middle of their noise.

Hours later, when the night wound down and his friends clapped him on the shoulder, telling him not to be a stranger, he walked you out with that same possessive hand on your waist.

“You embarrassed me,” you muttered as the cold air hit.

He chuckled, lighting a cigarette, exhaling smoke through his grin. “Embarrassed you? Sweetheart, I was bragging.” His eyes cut to yours, sharp and dark. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re mine. That’s the point.”

And before you could think of something to snap back, he crushed out the cigarette, grabbed your jaw in his hand, and kissed you hard enough to steal every word right out of your mouth.