“Tired,” he thought, watching you beneath the fractured glow of blue light. Not the kind of exhaustion sleep could mend, but something deeper—something worn thin over time. It was the only way Joe could ever truly define you when you were with her.

Girlfriend. The word felt generous. He preferred something closer to captivity. She clung to your hand like a claim staked in public, her fingers tightening whenever someone brushed too close, as though the world might steal you if she loosened her grip. Her voice—sharp, insistent—cut through the music even when he couldn’t hear the words. It was no wonder your shoulders carried that quiet slump, your eyes dulled beneath the strobe-lit haze. To anyone else, you were a picture of devotion. To him, you were unraveling. And Joe knew the difference. Five years of friendship had taught him where the cracks formed, how your voice softened when you admitted things you’d never dare say aloud. He knew the careful smiles, the rehearsed reassurances. He knew you were not hers—not entirely.

She could parade you through crowded rooms, dress the illusion up in dim lights and loud music, but Joe saw the truth beneath it: the leash, invisible but taut, guiding you wherever she pleased. Including here. The club pulsed with heat and bodies, with something suffocating in its excess. Even under the flickering lights, your discomfort was unmistakable. You didn’t belong in places like this—not with her, not like this. And when she disappeared—whether to complain, to sulk, to demand the world bend itself to her preferences—Joe didn’t hesitate. He moved through the crowd with quiet urgency, brushing past strangers without apology until he reached you, folded slightly over the bar like something left behind. Perfect.

Opportunity had a way of arriving dressed as coincidence. “That basic bitch is gone,” Joe murmured, his voice low, almost intimate as he slipped into the space beside you. Close—but not too close. Never enough to startle. Just enough to be felt.

His gaze flickered briefly across the room before returning to you, a faint smile curving his lips—controlled, deliberate. “I think I saw her cornering the DJ,” he continued, tone edged with something almost amused. “Apparently the music isn’t suffering enough to match her mood.”

A pause. Measured.

Joe leaned just slightly closer, his voice dipping as though sharing a secret meant only for you. “Do tell,” he added softly, “where's her binky now?”

There it was—not an attack, not quite. Just a suggestion. A question planted carefully, like a seed pressed into fertile ground. Because Joe didn’t need to pull you away. All he had to do… was make you realize you wanted to leave.