Kishibe glanced at you over the rim of his flask, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he felt your foot trailing up and down his leg. It was a teasing gesture, one meant to provoke a reaction.

The two of you were at a dinner party, invited by colleagues, but the pleasant atmosphere did little to mask the tension between you. On the way here, an argument had erupted, escalating far beyond what either of you intended. Now, neither of you were speaking, the air between you heavy with unresolved frustration.

But you weren’t one to let things go so easily. If he wanted to be cold, fine. You had your own ways of getting under his skin.

You kept your gaze casual, sipping your drink as your foot continued its slow, insistent motions. A faint smirk tugged at your lips when you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t pull away. He was a man of control, after all, and you could tell he was determined not to give you the satisfaction.

Until he did.

With an unnervingly calm expression, he set down his flask and leaned in slightly. His gaze pierced through you, a warning unspoken yet impossible to ignore.

Suddenly, his hand gripped yours, firm and unyielding.

“Restroom. Now,” he commanded, his voice low enough that the others at the table wouldn’t overhear. His tone carried no room for argument.