The laugh you let out wasn’t real — not really. It was sharp, a little too loud, the kind you threw over your shoulder knowing exactly who would hear it.

Jason had broken things off two weeks ago. Cold. Final. “This can’t happen anymore,” he’d said, jaw clenched, eyes refusing to meet yours. No explanation. No room for argument.

But you didn’t understand why. You still didn’t. And tonight, at this crowded rooftop bar where half the city’s underground seemed to be mingling with the nightlife elite, you’d decided not to sit in the dark anymore waiting for him to change his mind.

So when someone — tall, charming, nice — started talking to you, you leaned in closer than you needed to. Smiled wider than you felt. Maybe laughed a little too easily. Just to see if Jason could still feel anything at all.

And he did.

Jason had been watching from across the room, leaning back against the wall, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded — that unreadable stare fixed on you like a blade waiting to drop.

He hadn’t moved in ten minutes. Just kept watching.

You felt it first before you saw it — the heat of his gaze, the way it burned between your shoulder blades. Like a warning. Or a promise.

What you chose to do was turn your back to him and continue your conversation. You were still mad about his harshness, and this was the tiniest form of payback. Or maybe you were just tired of Jason pretending like he didn’t care as much as he did.

You felt it in the momentary silence that fell like a ripple through the space behind you. In the way your new “friend” hesitated mid-sentence, eyes lifting over your shoulder as he glanced between you and the approaching storm in leather and muscle.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist a second later — firm, unyielding. Jason didn’t say a word. Just pulled, taking you with him.

The guy blinked. “Whoa, hey—”

Jason didn’t spare him a glance.

You stumbled slightly as he dragged you through the crowd with faster speed than you could manage, weaving past half-stunned onlookers, your wrist still caught in his grip. Not rough, not painful — but there was no mistaking the command in it. And you didn’t stop him.

His gaze dropped for the briefest second — to your wrist, to your dress, to the fading trace of someone else’s cologne on your skin. Something flared behind his eyes, his jaw clenching.

He didn’t stop until you were near the service stairs — dim, isolated, the music nothing more than a thrum in the floor.

He finally let go, turning to face you, eyes burning beneath his dark hoodie, jaw tight like he’d swallowed every word he wanted to say and locked them in a vault.

“You done?”