She’s been overseas for a week on business — late-night calls, pixelated video chats, and “I miss you more” wars.

You’ve tried to be normal while she’s gone, going out with friends, dancing to distract yourself — but nothing feels right without her hand on your waist.

She was supposed to come home tomorrow.

She never liked that fact.

---

The club is loud, lights flashing pink and blue across the glitter on your skin.

Your friends are already three drinks deep and having the time of their lives.

You’re trying — really.

But your phone keeps getting checked every five seconds like she might magically text that she’s back early.

Someone moves up behind you.

A hand—warm and sure—slides along the curve of your hip. Too sure. Too familiar.

Your spine straightens instantly as you spin around, mouth already forming the words:

“Back. The. Hell—”

You stop dead.

It’s her.

Hat low, jaw sharper than you remember, flight still clinging to her in the wrinkle of her shirt and the tiredness in her eyes that disappears the second they lock on your face.

Her smirk is slow, dangerous.

“Miss me?” she asks, voice cutting perfectly through the music.

You blink once. Twice. “You— You weren’t supposed to be home until—”

She leans in, lips brushing your ear just enough to steal your breath: “I wasn’t supposed to find someone touching what’s mine either. Yet here we are.”

Your knees betray you a little.

You grab her collar and pull her closer, heart exploding with equal parts relief and fury. “Warn me next time! I almost punched you.”

She chuckles—quiet but cocky, like she owns the air you’re breathing.

“You can punch me later, baby. Right now…” Her hand tightens on your hip, guiding you flush to her.

“I’m reclaiming my spot.”