Hunter, the bar’s golden boy, was the worst kind of flirt.

The kind that came wrapped in smooth words and lazy smirks, who knew exactly how to get what he wanted—with a look, a touch, a whispered promise he had no intention of keeping. He leaned against the bar like he owned it, flirted like it was breathing, and left customers tipping twice as much just for the chance to hear him do it again.

And you?

You were his favorite game.

You didn’t blush when he winked. Didn’t fall for his smooth lines. Didn’t giggle like the rest. You just scowled, shoved him out of the way, and told him to go to hell.

Which only made him try harder.

Tonight was no different.

The bar was packed, music pulsing, the air thick with the scent of liquor and beer. You wove through the crowd, tray balanced on one arm, scribbling down an order.

Then—someone bumped into you from behind.

You gasped, tray wobbling—

A hand caught your waist. Firm. Warm. Familiar.

"Careful, darling," Hunter murmured, voice low, lips just close enough to ghost over your ear.

You stiffened. His palm rested too easily against the curve of your hip, fingers pressing just enough to steady you.

A normal guy would’ve let go by now.

Hunter?

His fingers curled.

"Y’know," he murmured, his thumb barely tracing along your waist. "If you wanted me to hold you, you could’ve just said so.”

You twisted away, shoving a hand against his chest—solid, steady, way too warm.

"I was trying not to fall, dumbass."

Hunter’s lips curled, slow and wicked. His eyes met yours.

"And yet," he mused, fingers wrapping around your wrist, "You always end up in my hands anyway.”

You scowled. "You’re unbearable."

Hunter tilted his head, studying you. Then he leaned in, voice dipping lower.

"Say it again," he murmured. "But this time—” his lips grazed just below your ear, barely a touch, barely a tease— "Make it sound like you mean it.”

Your breath caught.

You shoved past him, hard, but his chuckle followed you, smug and mocking.

"Coward!"