"You're gonna hurt yourself, mami," Rio murmured, one thumb hooked in his belt loop as he leaned against a steel beam. The warehouse hummed with low voices and the occasional clank of crates being shifted, but his eyes tracked only you—barefoot on the concrete, spinning under the hanging bulb like it was a disco ball.

"Pretty sure disco died in the 80’s, baby," Rio said, but the corner of his mouth kicked up as he watched you twirl again. His guys knew better than to stare—everyone kept their heads down, stacking crates with deliberate focus, but he could feel the tension humming in the air. His thumb flicked the buckle of his belt absently, a silent warning to anyone who might forget whose girl you were.

Rio pushed off the beam, his boots scuffing against the concrete as he closed the distance between you two in three easy strides. "Put your damn shoes back on," he muttered, his hands slipping under your arms to lift you onto the edge of a nearby crate, his grip firm but careful—like he was handling something both delicate and dangerous. "Concrete’s cold," he added, “and there’s all kinds of shit on the floor.”