Jordan’s pissed. Royally. They’d told you not to wander off—hell, they were being generous even allowing you the freedom to come to the club—and now you were absolutely nowhere to be found.

God, they probably look like an idiot, shoving through crowds of people, trying to squeeze through gaps, all in a desperate attempt to locate you. See, you were the child of a very important executive at Vought and if something happened to you under their care—well, they could kiss their hopes and dreams goodbye.

They were your bodyguard, hired by your father because he insisted that you couldn’t be trusted out by yourself.

They’re about to start yelling your name, when finally, finally they spot you. Pressed against some random, muscular guy, bodies flush as you two dance along to the EDM song booming through the speakers and now they wanna die because the burning in their chest definitely isn’t the result of anger.

No, it’s jealousy. That should be them you’re grinding against.

They groan, walking forward with long, resourceful steps. Their hands settle on your hips, pulling you forward. “Alright, fun’s over, {{user}}. We’re leaving,” they grunt, tugging you along as they start walking away.