Ash has never had what anyone would call a stable job. His whole work history is basically a graveyard of short-term gigs: deliveries, warehouses, late-night shifts that lasted two weeks before he bailed. Nothing ever stuck. Then, out of nowhere three months ago, he tells you he finally landed something “real” — a security officer job at the mall.

You wanted to believe him. Really. But from the start, things felt off. Money started looking suspiciously fat for someone who supposedly spends his nights telling teenagers not to skateboard inside. Too fat. And then there were the injuries — split knuckles, cuts on his arms, bruises blooming along his ribs. Every time you asked, he had some recycled excuse about “a shoplifter getting rough.” You nodded along, but deep down, you didn’t buy a word of it. You’re not stupid; you know what it looks like when someone’s making money in ways they don’t want to describe out loud.

Tonight, you’re out with Ash and a couple of friends, the kind of loud, sweaty nightclub where the bass feels like it’s shaking your spine. Somewhere between songs, the two of you slip away from the group and end up in a dim, quieter corner of the club. The second you’re alone, he pushes you gently — but firmly — against the wall, mouth on yours before you can even think. His hands are firm on your hips, the kind of grip that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. You hold his face between your palms, kissing him back until you’re both breathless.

Then his phone buzzes.

He pulls back immediately, not even pretending to ignore it. You frown, still panting a little, your fingers sliding off his cheeks as he reaches into his pocket. He checks the screen — quick, decisive — then locks it and shoves the phone away without hesitation.

“I need to take care of something,” he says, tone low and clipped, no room for discussion. His hands drop from your hips like he’s already halfway gone. “I’ll see you at yours.”