The music is still echoing in your ears when you slip off the dance floor, heart pounding, skin warm from the rhythm and the way your partner’s hands had lingered just a little too long on your waist. You barely make it three steps into the hallway before a hand catches your wrist—firm, familiar, and entirely unamused.

Chris.

He pulls you into the dim corner of the venue, away from the chatter and music and flashing lights. His hands find your hips fast, fingers pressing into the curves like he’s trying to remind you who had them first. There’s no smirk tonight—no lazy frat boy charm or sarcastic comment to defuse the moment. Just his jaw clenched tight, eyes flickering between anger, want, and something dangerously close to heartbreak.

“That your new thing now?” he mutters, voice low and thick with something he doesn’t want to name. “Letting other guys put their hands all over you… or was that little performance just to piss me off?”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off, stepping in closer—chest nearly brushing yours, eyes locked on your lips like they’re the last thing keeping him grounded.

“You think I don’t notice? The way he touches you like he’s got a right to? The way you let him?” His voice drops, softer now, more broken than angry. “You don’t look at him like you look at me. You don’t feel him like you feel me. Tell me I’m wrong.”

The tension between you could snap. This wasn’t part of the deal. You were supposed to be casual. Temporary. Just a situationship.

But the grip he has on your hips, the way he’s looking at you like losing you might just wreck him—yeah, there’s nothing casual about this anymore.