The lights were low, the music was pounding, and your friends were screaming—half-drunk and hyped beyond reason as the men onstage rolled their hips to Pony.

It was supposed to be harmless fun. A bachelorette weekend, just you and the girls. Simon wasn’t even supposed to know.

But fate—or maybe karma—had other plans.

You were laughing when it happened, a margarita glass in your hand, leaning back as one of the dancers slid toward your table, shirtless, oiled up, and entirely too confident. The crowd roared, and he reached for your hand—

That’s when you felt it.

The shift.

A change in the air. Like the temperature dropped ten degrees.

You turned around slowly, heartbeat sinking.

There, standing in the back of the venue, arms crossed over his chest, black mask pulled up over his face—was Simon.

He wasn’t moving. Just staring. Silent. Stone. Dangerous.

The music blared, but your ears rang with oh shit oh shit oh shit.

Your friends scattered, suddenly sobered, whispering and grabbing their purses like the show just got very real.

You stood up fast, muttering an awkward apology to the dancer, who—wisely—backed off.

By the time you reached Simon near the exit, he was already walking out, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap.

“Simon—”

He didn’t stop until you were both in the parking lot, where he finally turned on you. His voice was low, military-grade, rough around the edges and laced with pissed off restraint.

“You went to a Magic Mike show?”

“I—okay, technically yes, but it was a girls’ trip, it wasn’t like I—”

“Man was grinding on you.”

“No, almost grinding. There was no contact! No grind happened!”

He paced once in a tight circle, hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. “Unbelievable. Man does a tour in Syria and this is what he comes back to.”