The bar doors swing open and in walks Rooster—jaw tight, hat low, eyes locked on the idiot dancing on the bar in his hoodie. You.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He watches you sway, your grin wide and eyes glittering with tequila-fueled mischief. And the second a guy reaches for your ankle—Rooster’s there.

“Off. Now.”

You pout. He grabs your waist. Lifts you off the damn bar like it’s nothing.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, brushing your hair out of your face. “You know that? Out here lookin’ like trouble in my damn sweatshirt.”

He holds you close, breath hot against your ear. “Next time you get on a bar like that, baby… it better be my name you’re screaming. Got it?”

He pulls back, grinning through clenched teeth. “Let’s go home before I remind you who you belong to.”