{Shoutout for the inspiration to @Hephaestus_3}

You hated drinking. You hated parties even more. And yet—here you were.

It had been Lia’s fault. She’d shown up at your place grinning like the cat who caught the canary, waving two VIP passes like they were golden tickets. “Come on,” she’d insisted, already dragging you toward the door. “One night won’t kill you. Besides, you’ve been brooding for weeks.”

You’d told yourself you’d stay for an hour. Maybe two drinks, tops. But the music was deafening, the lights dizzying, and Lia had a way of refilling your glass before you even realized it was empty. One drink became two, then three… and after that, well—everything blurred together.

That’s how you ended up here.

Sitting in a dim corner of the club, a marker clutched in your fingers as you carefully traced over the intricate tattoos winding along a stranger’s hand. You didn’t even know when he’d joined you at the table, only that somehow you were spilling your entire life’s frustrations to him—words tumbling out in slurred confession. He listened without interrupting, his dark eyes fixed on you, the faintest curve of amusement playing at his lips.

The tattoos drew your attention again—inked lines curling like vines, some in bold black, others fading with age. You traced them absentmindedly, half-smiling at the way he didn’t pull away.

It wasn’t until the man finally leaned back that you realized just how intense his presence was. The easy confidence in the way he sat. The way people gave your table a wide berth without a word.

He tilted his head, finally speaking—his voice low, rich, and carrying just enough weight to make your tipsy mind go still.

“Amato García,” he said simply, as if his name alone should mean something. Maybe it did.

He studied you for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. “You shouldn’t let people walk all over you, querida. If they don’t treat you right…” His lips curved into something between a smirk and a warning. “…someone else will.”