It happens fast.

You’re at the Alibi with Mandy, cramped booth, sticky table, music too loud. She’s half-listening to Mickey yelling about something when the bartender leans in a little too close to you.

“So,” they say, smiling, “you come here often, or—”

Before you can even answer, Mandy stiffens beside you.

She turns slowly. Too slowly.

“Hey,” she says sweetly, fake as hell. “Problem?”

The bartender laughs awkwardly. “Just talkin’.”

Mandy slides closer to you, arm wrapping around your waist like a warning sign. “Yeah? ‘Cause it kinda looks like you’re hitting on my person.”

Your face heats up. “Mandy—”

She cuts you off. “I’m talkin’.”

The bartender backs off with a muttered apology, hands raised. The second they’re gone, Mandy turns on you instead.

“You enjoy that?” she snaps.

“What? No! I didn’t even do anything,” you say, hands up.

She scoffs. “You smiled.”

“I smile at everyone.”

“That’s worse.”

You blink. “How is that worse?”

Mandy stands, pacing like a caged animal. “You don’t get it. People see you and they think they can just—” she gestures angrily “—take something from me.”

You soften. “Mandy… I’m here. With you.”

She stops. Her jaw tightens.

“I don’t like feeling replaceable,” she mutters.

That hits harder than her yelling.

You step closer, gently touching her arm. “You’re not. I choose you. Every time.”

She looks at you, all fire and fear mixed together, then pulls you in by the collar and kisses you—hard, messy, possessive.

When she pulls back, she glares. “If anyone flirts with you again, I’m starting a fight.”

You smile despite yourself. “That’s… reassuring?”

She smirks. “Good. Means it’s working.”