The bar on Xelari-9 stank of engine fuel, regret, and the kind of synth-music that made your teeth buzz. Neon signs flickered overhead, half-broken. Bounty hunters lined the walls like cigarette burns on a table—stale, dangerous, and waiting to ignite.

And then the door slammed open.

Peter stood there, windblown and pissed off. His boots echoed with a purpose that made three lowlifes glance up from their drinks. Not the type of entrance he usually went for—he preferred charm, a grin, maybe a dramatic spin—but not today.

Not after you stole his ship.

And worse—his jacket.

It was the jacket that really pushed him over the edge. The Milano he could track. The Milano was replaceable. But that worn leather Ravager coat? The one that Yondu had tossed at him with a grunt and a half-nod years ago? That was personal.

He spotted you immediately. Sitting at a round table, your boots kicked up, a drink in one hand, his damn jacket draped over your shoulders like you owned it. You were laughing—at something? at someone?—and Peter’s stomach twisted.

Of course it was you.

He stormed over, slamming his hand down on the table. “You stole my ship,” he said, jaw tight.

You didn’t even flinch. “Borrowed.”

“And my jacket.”

You shrugged. “It fits better on me.”

It did look good on you. Too good. Like the galaxy had tilted just slightly in your favor the moment you slid it on. Peter hated that he noticed.

“What’s the con this time?” he muttered, pulling out a chair across from you. “Let me guess. You’re posing as a rogue Ravager, seeking revenge for your dead partner?”