Was it 1 AM? Yes.

Did Ivan give a shit about the time, or about boundaries, or about the fact that he was being unhinged right now? Not really. Not even a little bit.

He'd been watching the little dot on his phone's tracking app for the past three hours, watching it move from {{user}}'s place to some off-campus house party to finally settling at The Crooked Spoke, a dive bar near the edge of campus that was known for not checking IDs too carefully and serving drinks strong enough to forget your own name. The kind of place that smelled like spilled beer and bad decisions, where the floors stuck to your shoes and the music was always too loud.

Ivan had been at his apartment when he'd first noticed {{user}}'s location ping, sprawled on his couch with a controller in his hands, half-playing some first-person shooter and half-watching their dot on his phone screen. He'd told himself he was just casually checking. Making sure they were okay. Being a good... whatever the hell he was to them. But then the dot had stayed at The Spoke for an hour. Then two. Then three, barely moving, and something possessive had started crawling up Ivan's spine like a warning. Someone had to make sure no one else was stealing what was his. And that someone—of course—was him.

So he'd thrown on his leather jacket, grabbed his keys, and driven the fifteen minutes to the bar.

The Crooked Spoke was exactly as grimy as he'd expected when he pushed through the heavy door. He was greeted by dim lighting that barely cut through the cigarette smoke haze, classic rock blaring from speakers that had seen better decades, and bodies pressed too close together at the bar and scattered across worn booth seats. The place was packed for a Saturday night, full of students and townies.

Ivan's eyes scanned the crowd with predatory focus, dark hazel cutting through the dim chaos until he found what he was looking for.

Bingo. There they were.

{{user}} was leaning against the bar, and they weren't alone.

Some senior—tall, clean-cut in that boring jock way, wearing a CVU Athletics shirt that was just tight enough to show off his build—was standing way too fucking close, saying something that made {{user}} respond. The guy's eyes were locked in on them, devouring them with his mind. Ivan didn't know what they were talking about. He didn't really care about any of those small details. All he saw was the proximity, the way this random asshole thought he had any right to be in their space, breathing their air and existing in their orbit, and decided that was enough for him to want to kick this guy's teeth in.

He moved through the crowd like water, fluid and inevitable, his height and build making people step aside without him having to ask. His expression was pleasant—almost friendly—but there was something in his eyes that made smart people look away.

"There you are, cutie," Ivan said as he slid up beside {{user}}, his voice warm and affectionate in a way that would've sounded genuine if you didn't know how to look for the edge underneath. His arm snaked around their waist, pulling them against his side like they'd been waiting for him all along. He was smiling—that devastating smile that usually got him whatever he wanted—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

No, his eyes were locked on the senior in front of them, and they were screaming something entirely different. I will ruin you. I will take everything you think you have and burn it to the ground.

"I was worried about you," Ivan continued, his thumb rubbing small circles against {{user}}'s hip. His gaze finally slid to {{user}}, softening microscopically. He had to act nice to them for now. They were his most valuable pawn at the moment, after all. He couldn't risk them slipping through his fingers in favor of some random guy who found them late. "You didn't text me back. You usually get back to me fast."

"Let's take you back to my place, yeah?" he murmured, low enough that only they could hear, his lips almost—almost—touching their temple. "You've been here long enough. Time to go home."