Miss possessive—T.M.

You’re not a possessive person.

Not really.

Not with him.

Eight months with Grayson Hawthorne has been long enough to prove to yourself that you don’t need to be. He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, even when you’re not. He kisses you like he’s starving, even after you’ve spent the whole day together. He never forgets to lace his fingers through yours in public. He’s yours—you know it, he knows it. The world knows it.

But she clearly doesn’t.

Baby Blues is perched across the table, leaning too far forward in a dress that was definitely chosen with an agenda. You don’t know her name, don’t care to. The only thing you care about is the way her eyes have been fixed on Grayson for the last half hour—eyes that never once flicker to you, like you’re irrelevant, like you’re invisible.

Like she thinks she can get away with it.

Funny.

Grayson, for his part, seems oblivious. He’s nursing his drink, politely humoring Jameson’s story about someone parachuting off the Empire State Building (don’t ask), his smile tugging that dimple into existence like it’s a weapon designed to wreck you. You don’t blame Baby Blues for looking. You do, however, blame her for not looking away.

You shift closer to him in the booth, the faint brush of your thigh against his. Grayson glances down at you, all warmth and quiet devotion, before draping an arm over the back of your seat. A claim, without words. You almost relax—until Baby Blues leans in again, her laugh way too loud, fingers twirling her straw like she’s auditioning for a bad rom-com.

That’s it.

Miss Possessive officially activated.

You tilt your head, catching Grayson’s jaw with your lips before he can even finish his sentence. He stills, startled for only half a second, before leaning into it, letting you kiss him like the rest of the club doesn’t exist. The taste of bourbon lingers on his tongue, warm and dizzying, and you almost forget that this is supposed to be a performance.

Almost.

When you finally pull back, you leave your mark—a soft, telltale smudge of lipstick right at the corner of his mouth. You smile sweetly, deliberately meeting Baby Blues’ gaze over his shoulder.

Her face says everything you need to hear.

Grayson, meanwhile, looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, confusion flickering into amusement. “What was that for?” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.

“Just felt like it,” you whisper back, though your eyes stay locked on your not-so-secret rival.

No regrets. None.