It was 4:04 a.m. and you rolled up to the door like life was a music video. Girl’s Night hit way harder than planned — you were running on tequila, glitter lip gloss, and zero brain cells. You kicked off a heel, missed, almost face-planted, then glared at the shoe like it betrayed you.

“Why you tryna fight me? I bought you,” you mumbled, leaning your whole body weight onto the door while digging through your bag like a raccoon in a trash can. Keys, receipts, lip gloss— oh, there they were. Victory.

You stumbled in, already planning your dramatic flop onto the couch, when— click.

Lights blasted on. And there he was.

Ace, leaning against the pillar like a final boss, eyes dark, pissed off, and very much not giving “welcome home princess.” His jaw was clenched so tight you could practically hear the dental insurance crying. His Adam’s apple bobbed once — that dangerous “I’m about to lose it but I still love you” swallow.

You froze like a deer caught in headlights. A very drunk, sparkly deer.

He pushed off the pillar and stalked toward you, every step dripping fury. Before you could even wobble backward, his hand hooked around your waist, dragging you flush against him.

“Where the hell have you been?” he growled, voice low enough to vibrate through your ribs. “It’s four in the damn morning, Lia. You could’ve been kidnapped.”

His grip tightened, not rough enough to hurt — just firm enough to remind you who you belonged to. His breath hit your cheek, hot and pissed and terrified all at once.

And suddenly, the room stopped spinning. Because sober or not, nothing sobered you faster than Ace in overprotective mode.