The bass was thumping hard enough to rattle the floorboards—and my feckin’ skull right along with them. Every beat pulsed through my chest, sticky with heat and bodies and bad decisions. Glittery lights smeared colour across the walls, red and violet and electric blue, spinning so fast it made the room feel like it was breathing. People were everywhere—laughing too loud, drinks sloshing, shoulders knocking like the place couldn’t hold all the chaos it had invited in.

And then I saw {{user}}.

Across the room. Smiling. Talking. To him.

Some lad I didn’t recognize. Too clean-cut for a place like this. Hair neat and tidy, like someone had told him exactly how to look before letting him out the door. He leaned in when {{user}} laughed—too close, too comfortable—like he had a feckin’ right. Like {{user}} was fair game.

My jaw tightened. Fingers curled slowly around the neck of my bottle until the glass bit into my palm.

They were wearing that short black outfit—the one with the low back. The one that had nearly driven me mad the first time I saw it on them. I knew every line of their body, every freckle and scar and soft place. Knew the way they bit their bottom lip when they were thinking. Knew that laugh, too—half-polite, just shy of real.

They were being nice. He was pushing.

And I’d had enough.

I moved through the crowd, not rushing but not dragging either. Purposeful. Like a storm that hadn’t decided yet how much damage it was going to do. I didn’t bother looking at him when I got there. Didn’t acknowledge his existence at all. Just slid in behind {{user}}, close enough that there wasn’t an inch of space left, and set my hand firmly at the small of their back.

They stiffened at first—just a heartbeat.

Then they melted.

That little exhale told me everything.

Yeah. You know exactly who it is.

“Miss me?” I murmured into their ear, voice low and rough, pitched just for them.

They turned their head slightly, like they were about to say something—maybe a warning, maybe a don’t you dare, maybe my name—but I didn’t give them the chance. I dipped my head and pressed my mouth to the skin just under their ear. Slow. Deliberate. Just once.

It was enough.

Their breath hitched, body leaning back into mine on instinct, like their head knew better than their pride. Like they were trying to stay annoyed, but their pulse had already betrayed them. I caught the lad’s expression shift—from smug, to uncertain, to something hovering between irritated and intimidated.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, still looking at {{user}}, thumb tracing a lazy, possessive circle where my hand rested. I still didn’t spare him a glance. “You were just standing too far away from me. Couldn’t have that.”

{{user}} turned then, facing me. Their cheeks were flushed, eyes sharp but bright. “Shane…”

“I know,” I said easily. “I’m being a prick.”

They scowled at me, properly this time. It should’ve landed harder than it did.

“I’m not your feckin’ property,” they said.

“Never said you were.” I smiled—slow, unapologetic, a little dangerous. “But if some fella thinks he can talk to you like I don’t exist… then yeah. I’ll remind him.”

Silence stretched between us, thick with heat and music and unfinished arguments. Their lips parted like they were about to argue again—but their breathing was still shallow, their body still angled toward mine.

The lad shifted awkwardly beside us, suddenly very aware of how much he wasn’t wanted.

{{user}} glanced at him once. Then back at me.

“…You always do this,” they said quietly.

“And you always pretend you hate it,” I replied, leaning in just enough that only they could hear. “So tell me—do you want me to let him keep talking to you?”

I waited. Right there. Hand steady at their back.