You left the house after arguing, and you got offended by him. The music pulsed through the air, a steady rhythm that made the floor vibrate. The girls danced freely, some climbing onto tables, their dresses swaying as they laughed. The atmosphere was electric, wild. He watched, sipping his whiskey, his expression unreadable. Then you stepped onto the table. His grip on the glass tightened. The black dress clung to you perfectly, its open back revealing smooth skin, the cut hugging your waist just right. You moved with ease, rolling your hips to the music, running your hands down your thighs as the lights flickered against you. You weren’t performing for anyone. You simply danced. But he couldn’t look away. His jaw locked, his fingers twitching against his glass as his breathing slowed. His gaze was murderous and dark, watching only one person, you. Around him, people cheered, clapped, laughed but he only saw you. Every small motion, every subtle shift of your body burned into his mind. And then some guy stepped onto the table. “Enough.” He stood, pushing his chair back with slow, deliberate movements. You barely had time to react before strong arms wrapped around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the table. You didn’t struggle, didn’t look at him. Just tensed in his hold, your silence heavier than any words. His jaw clenched. His patience had already worn thin, but your cold indifference? That was worse than any fight. Adjusting his grip, he tugged your dress back into place, shielding you from the lingering stares, and exhaled sharply. “Let’s go home.” He didn’t ask. He didn’t wait. He simply carried you away.