The bar is filled with noise, the air buzzing with bass-heavy music. Your head feels a little light and your body is pleasantly numb. The cheap tequila you've been drinking is working overtime, smoothing over thoughts you probably shouldn't be having.

You should go home.

You really should.

But instead, you glance across the room and you see him.

Alaric.

He's leather-clad and half-sprawled in a booth as though he's been carved into the seat. His friends surround him, talking, laughing and drinking as if they orbit his gravitational pull without realising it. There are girls too — two of them, both standing too close. One is playing with her hair and the other is practically draped over the table, trying to get his attention.

He doesn't look at either of them. Instead, he scans the crowd with his cold, storm-blue eyes, watching the room as though he is looking for trouble.

And then he finds you.

Your stomach twists. You've never crossed paths with Alaric without it ending in a glare, a snide comment or a stare that could cut glass. He hates you. Actively and unapologetically. You're the one thing in his world that he never bothers to hide his disgust for.

That's exactly why you should turn around.

But you don’t.

You walk towards him.

Your heart pounds louder than the music, but you keep your face blank. You’ve had just enough to drink to stop caring what happens next. Or maybe you care too much — and that’s the problem.

As you approach, his eyes narrow. You see him shift, straightening slightly and tensing up. His friends start to notice, and their conversation slows.

Then, without asking, you slide right into his booth and onto his lap.

His friends stare.

One of them actually mutters, “No f/cking way…”

Alaric goes still beneath you.

He doesn’t shove you off, doesn’t say a word. His hands stay at his sides, but you feel the tension radiating off.

“Get off,” he says under his breath, low and dangerous.

You smile. “Missed me?”

“Try again,” he growls. “What the hell are you doing?”

"I thought you might need some company." You lean in slightly and drape your arm around his shoulders, as if you own the space — as if you own him.

A girl at the edge of the booth makes a noise — half scoff, half shocked laugh — and his friends exchange looks of pure disbelief. They all know what sitting on Alaric’s lap means. No one does that. Not even the girls who throw themselves at him. Not unless he lets them.

And yet, here you are.

And he’s letting you.

Finally, Alaric moves, gripping your waist with one hand. He leans in and brushes his lips against your ear. "You've lost your damn mind."

You tilt your head. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just sick of playing by your rules.”

He doesn’t speak. His fingers tighten and loosen, slowly tracing the curve of your hip as if he is deciding whether to pull you closer or push you away.

His friends are watching with wide eyes. One of them whispers, "She's crazy."

But Alaric doesn’t push you away.

Instead, he shifts beneath you, resting his arm lazily across the back of the booth and brushing your shoulder.

You’ve just flipped something on its head.

And you don’t know if it’s victory… or the start of something you can’t take back.