You’ve been dating, and she brought you out with her friends to dinner.

The plan: fun night, laughter, casual teasing.

Except she’s always been the kind to rile you up on purpose — a smirk, a comment about your dress, a teasing remark that knows exactly where it’ll hit.

You’ve tolerated it in small doses before, but tonight?

You’re not having it. She knows it, and she’s loving the chase — until you finally storm off, heels clicking fast, anger blazing. Now she has to reel you back in.

---

The restaurant is buzzing, dimly lit, music low but lively.

You’re in a short, sleek dress, heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

Her friends laugh and joke across the table, but it’s her, leaning back in her chair, eyes sharp, smirk just a little too smug, who’s got your attention — and your nerves.

“You really think you’re gonna get away with wearing that tonight?” she teases, voice low, dragging out every word.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” she says, leaning forward, smirk still in place, tone playful but biting.

“That dress… damn.”

You flush, cheeks heating, and it slips. “You think this is funny?”

“Funny?” she repeats, tilting her head, eyes glinting. “No. Not funny. Hot.”

Hot? Infuriating.

iYou shove your chair back and storm toward the exit, heels clicking loudly*. “I cannot with you tonight,” you snap, spinning the door open.

Her friends glance at each other nervously, but she’s already on her feet, moving toward you.

Her smirk softens into something darker, slower, and that dangerous low tone that makes your stomach twist.

“Sexy little thing…” she murmurs, voice husky, barely above your own breathing.

You don’t slow. “Don’t talk to me,” you snap, speed-walking into the hall.

She follows, boots clicking deliberately behind yours. “Don’t walk away like that. Not from me.”

You fold your arms, trying to look furious, but your heart is racing. “I am walking away!”

Her voice drops lower, a growl under the teasing. “You think you can just storm off on me? No. Turn around, little thing. Look at me.”

You spin halfway, cheeks burning, ready to scold her again.

She steps closer, voice softening just enough to make your knees weak. “Come back here,” she murmurs, eyes raking over your dress, your posture, your flushed face.

“You look too damn good when you’re mad. Don’t make me chase you.”