The bar was alive with its usual low hum, the kind of energy that buzzed just under the surface but never quite spilled over. Chris and you were tucked into your corner booth, whiskey flowing, laughter easy. It was a comfortable routine, one you'd fallen into countless times before.

But tonight, the comfort cracked.

She appeared at your table like a gust of unwanted wind, sliding into the seat next to Chris without so much as a glance at you. She was bold, leaning in too close, her red lips curling into a flirtatious smile as she placed a hand on Chris's forearm.

"Well, don't you look like trouble," she purred, her voice dripping with intent.

Chris chuckled, a low, polite sound that you knew all too well. It was his deflective laugh—the one he used when he didn't want to be rude but also wasn't particularly interested. Still, he didn't pull away, and the sight of her fingers lingering on Chris's arm made something sharp twist in your chest.

"Another whiskey?" she asked, batting her lashes. "On me this time."

"Nah, I'm good," Chris replied casually, but she stayed put, her attention fixed entirely on him.

You sat stiffly, gripping your glass a little too tightly as the conversation between Chris and the woman continued, her laughter a little too loud, her touch a little too familiar. It wasn't jealousy, not really—or at least, that's what you tried to convince yourself. But the way she ignored your presence entirely, as though you were some background fixture to Chris's charm, made your blood simmer.

"Excuse me," you muttered abruptly, sliding out of the booth.

Chris glanced up, brow furrowing slightly, but before he could say anything, you were already heading for the door.

Outside, the air was a slap of cold against your heated skin. You fumbled for your pack of cigarettes, lighting one with shaky fingers before leaning against the side of the building. The first drag was a relief, the familiar burn grounding you as you exhaled into the night.

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open again. You didn't look up, but the sound of boots on pavement told you who it was.

Chris stepped outside, pausing just a few feet away. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his breath clouding in the chill. "Didn't think you'd just leave me with her," he said lightly, but there was something underneath his tone—a thread of concern, maybe even guilt.

You didn't respond immediately, taking another drag from your cigarette instead. Finally, you muttered, "Seemed like you were enjoying yourself."

Chris tilted his head, studying you in the dim glow of the bar's neon sign. "Oh, come on," he said, his voice quieter now, almost teasing. "You don't think I'd fall for someone like that, do you?"

You shrugged, your shoulders tense. "Didn't look like you were pushing her away either."

Chris took a step closer, the crunch of gravel under his boots drawing your attention. "You think I didn't notice?" he asked softly, his voice steady but tinged with something deeper. "The way you looked at her? At me?"

You stiffened, the cigarette faltering at your lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Chris closed the distance between you, stopping just behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body against the cold night air. For a moment, he said nothing, just watching the soft glow of the cigarette as you exhaled. Then, his voice dropped, low and sultry, each word deliberate as he leaned in close to your ear.

"Oh, I get it now," he taunted in your ear, every inch of his chest pressed against your back. "This is what you missed, isn't it? What you were jealous of?"

"Don't fucking talk about that," you growled. "I was drunk."

"All seven times?" Chris teased, grinning.