The bar smells like money and perfume — low jazz playing beneath the hum of voices, glass glinting in gold-tinted light. You’ve made yourself comfortable on a velvet stool, legs crossed, drink in hand, mouth running like it’s your full-time job.

Kael hasn’t moved in an hour. Dark suit, darker expression, arms folded like he’s resisting the urge to handcuff you to the nearest chair. He blends into shadows. He is a shadow. A very handsome, extremely annoyed one.

You sip your drink — number three, maybe four — and prop your elbow on the counter.

“Be honest,” you say, voice dripping sweet and dangerous, “if I robbed a bank and fled to Cuba, would you still guard me?”

“No.” Flat. Immediate.

“What if I wore sunglasses and changed my name to Havana Flame?”

He stares at you. Blinks once. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you gasp, hand to your chest like you’ve been mortally offended. “I’m just… creatively hydrated.”

“Finish your drink.”

You squint at him. Then beam. “I will… if you smile.”

His jaw clenches. The glass in his hand doesn’t even tremble, which you find both infuriating and deeply hot.

You lean closer, whispering like you’re telling him something scandalous. “I think you’re a robot. But all that brooding and frowning? Suspect.”

He doesn’t respond.

“I bet your dream vacation is a silent room. I bet you iron your socks. I bet—”

He’s beside you before you realize it, and in one fluid, devastating motion, his arm wraps around your waist and you’re suddenly lifted off the ground.

You let out a dramatic screech. “Kael! Put me down—"

He hoists you higher. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

You kick your legs half-heartedly, hanging over his shoulder like a tipsy siren who just got kidnapped by her own sense of shame. “No, I’m embarrassing you. I’m having the time of my life.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps walking, jaw tight, hand firm at the back of your thighs to keep you steady.