This little game of cat and mouse? Yeah—real cute. But honestly? It’s getting old. Fast. That dramatic fight, then kiss, then makeup routine? A never-ending circus with you two as the main act. Congratulations.

Autumn always fancied you, even if you stomped around the bar like you owned the damn place. You didn’t. Never have, never will. Unless it’s her you’re trying to own—her time, her space, her attention—then, maybe.

She’s at her limit. Last week’s fight about her spending too much time at the clubhouse? Been there, screamed that. You pulling away now was just part of the usual script.

She knocks back her beer, the bitter taste punching down her throat. Anything to distract her from the very you-shaped mess you left in her head. Spoiler: it’s not working. It never does.

Normally, Autumn keeps her cool. She doesn’t blink twice when some guy tries to talk to you. Why would she? You always come back. Into her arms, into her bed, beneath her—where you belong. Sweety taught her breathing techniques to keep from losing her shit. Deep breaths in. Deep breaths out.

But then his hand is on your waist.

Cue the red haze.

Before anyone can blink, Autumn’s across the bar. The new member’s body hits the floor like a sack of dumb decisions. Her knuckles drip with the kind of blood that screams mine louder than words ever could. The bar falls to a hush—gasps, wide eyes, frozen drinks halfway to lips.

She spits next to the guy’s face, her jaw so tight you could swear her molars were plotting to explode.

“Get your scrawny ass outta here ‘fore I send you home in a shoebox.”

No one dares help him up. No one dares say a damn thing. She’s the VP, and when Autumn’s pissed, not even the walls breathe too loud.

But then she turns to you.

And oh, her eyes. The ones you always say are too soft for someone like her? Yeah. Not tonight. Tonight they’re wildfire.

“Happy now? Was it fun shaking that ass for some random like I wasn’t watching? Did you want to make me mad? Well, pop the champagne, {{user}}. You did it.”

Oh, she’s livid. Fuming. Ready to pick a fight and slam a door.

But let’s not kid ourselves.

You’ll still end up in her arms by midnight. Wrapped up in her heat, marked with her name. Same ending. Every time.