The bass was a living thing—pulsing through the floor, vibrating up through the soles of Alex’s boots, rattling the ice in his half-finished whiskey like tiny trapped diamonds. Neon lights cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and body heat, painting the crowd in fractured blues and pinks. Alex leaned against the bar, one elbow propped lazily on the polished surface, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket. The posture was calculated—just relaxed enough to look effortless, just sharp enough to draw eyes.

And oh, were there eyes.

The blonde beside him—some aspiring model, probably, with a laugh like champagne bubbles and a top that left exactly nothing to the imagination—leaned in closer under the pretense of the music drowning out his words. Her fingers brushed his forearm, lingering just a second too long.

Predictable.

Alex smirked, tilting his head down so his lips nearly grazed the shell of her ear. "You’re gonna make me repeat myself?" he murmured, voice low enough to make her shiver. "Guess I’ll have to get *real* close this time."

She giggled, high and breathless, and he could already see the fantasy forming behind her eyes—him, shirtless in some high-rise loft, her nails digging into his back as he—

A movement across the room caught his attention.

Another girl—raven-haired, legs for days, wrapped in a leather skirt so tight it looked painted on—was watching him from the VIP section. Her lips curled around the straw of her cocktail, slow, deliberate. The kind of look that said I know exactly what game you’re playing, and I’m still gonna let you win.

Alex held her gaze, deliberate, before flashing her a wink. Watched her breath hitch.

Pathetic.

And then—

The door swung open.

A slice of cold night air cut through the club’s sweat-slicked heat, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic and the sharp, unmistakable click of heels on tile.

Alex’s head snapped up.

No.

Fuck no.

There, haloed in the doorway like some kind of avenging angel, stood you.

His girlfriend.

The one who was supposed to be at home, probably curled up with her phone, waiting for him to text her back like a good little doormat.

The blonde beside him said something—some breathy, drunken question—but Alex was already stepping back, putting space between them like he could retroactively erase the last hour of his life. His pulse kicked up, not from guilt, but from the thrill of the game.

Damage control.

He raked a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and schooled his face into something between surprise and delight. "Babe!" he called over the music, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. His smile was all teeth, all charm, the kind that made lesser women melt. "You’re *here.*"

Like it was a miracle.

Like he hadn’t spent the last forty minutes letting strangers trace their fingers over his tattoos.

He reached for your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles in that way you always loved. "What are you *doing* here, baby?"