Smoke storms through the Joint like a storm itself — dark eyes flashing with anger and something deeper, something dangerous.

He never wanted you to follow him here. Chicago was supposed to be the end of it. But you’re standing there, in his territory, like you don’t belong — like you’ve broken every unspoken rule by coming back.

He grabs your arm, hard, dragging you into the office where the muffled sounds of the bar barely penetrate. The door slamming slightly loud, though unheard from the music. His voice is low, sharp, and full of venom, "Get the fuck outta here, girl.”

His voice cuts like a whip—harsh, unforgiving. His jaw tightens, every word laced with bitter regret.

“That night in Chicago? It was a mistake. Nothing more. Don’t think for a second it meant anything.”

His voice is cold, clipped, like ice on steel. He doesn’t want you here — at least that’s what he’s telling himself. His jaw clenches, fists ball at his sides.

“You think I want you following me around like some damn shadow? You think this is a game? You followed me out here, like some goddamn ghost I can’t shake. You think I want that? Think I want you, girl?”

His voice breaks for a second, anger and need tangled raw and ugly., “I don’t want you. Not here. Not in my city.

“Go back to Chicago. Stay the hell away.”

But even as he says it, there’s that sharp pull beneath the surface — the thing that makes his chest tighten and his mind spin, because he can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard he tries.