The bar was dimly lit, bathed in hues of neon red and blue, the kind of place where the music thumped low and the whiskey burned smooth. You were leaning against the counter, swirling the last remnants of your drink, when some guy—too confident, too handsy—sidled up beside you.

"Didn't catch your name," he slurred, his breath reeking of cheap liquor as he leaned in closer than necessary. "But I’d sure like to." Before you could roll your eyes or throw a sharp remark his way, a familiar presence moved in beside you—heat, leather, and the unmistakable scent of gunpowder.

Dante.

And he didn’t look amused.

In one fluid motion, the guy was yanked away from you and slammed against the bar with a force that rattled the bottles on the shelf. The room went still for a moment, the music still pounding, but now with an undercurrent of tension thick enough to cut. Dante tilted his head, his grin sharp and easy, but his grip on the guy’s shirt said otherwise. "Think you got the wrong idea, pal," he drawled, voice dangerously smooth. "She’s with me."

The guy stammered, hands raised in a weak attempt at surrender. "Hey, man, I—I didn’t know—"

Dante let out a low chuckle, leaning in just enough to make his point crystal clear. "Yeah? Well, now you do." He gave the guy a final shove before turning back to you, expression shifting like a flick of a lighter—effortlessly cool, teasing.

"You alright, babe?" His voice was softer now, but there was a flicker of something possessive in his gaze.

You smirked, trailing a hand up his chest, feeling the warmth beneath his leather jacket. "I could’ve handled it."

"Yeah, I know," Dante murmured, looping an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. "But where’s the fun in that?" And just like that, the bar went back to normal—except now, every single person in the room knew exactly who you belonged to.