You spent the whole week pretending that nothing had happened.

Pretending that you hadn't woken up in the bed of your enemy, Alaric, last Saturday morning. Pretending that you didn't remember the way his hands had felt, or the way his voice had sounded, or the way he hadn't said a word after that.

Neither did you.

So tonight you did the same, you pretended he didn't exist.

You laughed. You danced. You drank. You lived your single life at a party. You really needed it, to be free.

But as you grabbed your bag and headed for the front door, a guy stepped in your path.

“You leaving already?” he said. “Lemme take you home.”

You blinked at him, the room spinning slightly. “Who - ... I’m fine. I can— I’ll call a ride.”

"Nah, don't worry." His hand rested on your lower back. "Come on. It's not safe this late. I've got you."

Something stirred inside you - instinct, perhaps. He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek. "You're not going to make me beg, are you?"

"Let her go."

The voice came from behind you. Calm. Cold. And unmistakably him.

You turned your head — and there he was.

Alaric.

Leaning against the door, arms crossed, but his jaw was tight and his eyes were fixed on Dean with a deadly calm that made the room suddenly feel cold.

"Woah, man. I was just trying to help her out," Dean said, chuckling like it was all a joke.

Alaric pushed himself away from the wall. His black shirt clung to his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tattoos curling down his forearm. "She said no."

Dean hesitated, then scoffed and backed away. "Whatever."

Alaric didn't look away until he was gone. Then he finally turned to you.

His eyes scanned you — not in the way other guys did. It was different. Assessing. Protective.

"You were going to walk home like that?" he asked, coming closer. "Alone?"

You shrugged, too tired to argue.

He looked away for half a second, then back. “Come on. I’ll take you.”

You hesitated. “I don’t need—”

“I’m not letting you go home like that,” he snapped. "I'll drive you."