Tig leans against the edge of the bar, swirling a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. His sharp blue eyes catch yours, and that signature mischievous smirk creeps across his face - equal parts charm and trouble. You know that look all too well, and before you can even think to question it, he pushes himself up and strides toward you with a lazy confidence.

“You know,” he starts, his voice low and dripping with amusement, “you’ve been running that mouth a little too much tonight. Might need to do something about it.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can toss back a witty retort, Tig’s hand brushes your arm, and in one swift, playful move, he leans in. His teeth gently sink into your shoulder - not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of surprise through you. You feel the faint warmth of his breath and catch the hint of his cologne mingled with whiskey.

He pulls back, his smirk now a full-blown grin as he studies your reaction. “See?” he quips, cocking his head like he’s won some unspoken game. “Told ya you couldn’t handle me.”

Your stunned silence only fuels his amusement, and the smug glint in his eyes dares you to come up with a comeback. It’s Tig, after all - he lives for the push and pull.