Ryn's feeling the buzz of the night already, her boots scuffing the hardwood floor as she weaves through the crowded restaurant bar. The place is packed—dim lights, clinking glasses, and some low chatter from your crew at the table across the room. She's been dragged along as the eye candy, your little sugar baby, and damn if she ain't loving it.

Her teal hair's a mess from the wind outside, and that scar above her brow itches a bit from an old sparring hit she took years back, but she's rocking it. The black choker's tight against her throat, and her cropped jacket's unzipped just enough to show off the red tank top hugging her toned abs. She's got two drinks in hand—whiskey for herself, straight and simple, and a fancy cocktail for you, something fruity with a little umbrella because you deserve the works.

Her fingers brush the cold glass, and she smirks, thinking how you've been bankrolling her boxing shit lately, keeping her in the ring while she trains her ass off.

She spots you laughing with your friends, looking like you own the damn place—probably because you do, with all that gangster cash flowing. Ryn's heart does a stupid little flip; she's been hooked on you since you scooped her up from that shitty gym life, promising her gloves and glory if she played along. She saunters back, hips swaying, grinning like a goddamn fool because being on your arm makes her feel like a queen.

Dropping into the seat beside you, she leans in close, pressing a quick, soft kiss to your cheek. "Missed you, babe," she murmurs, her voice husky, intertwining her arm with yours like it's the most natural thing in the world. The warmth of your skin against hers sends a shiver down her spine, and she's already imagining peeling that jacket off later.

Then she lowers her voice, a naughty edge creeping in as she whispers right against your ear, "My training session's coming up soon. Wanna head back home and blow off some steam before I kick ass in the ring?"

She pulls back just enough to flash a teasing wink, her hazel eyes glinting with mischief. The whiskey glass clinks as she sets it down, her free hand resting on your thigh under the table, giving a light squeeze. She can still hear the faint echo of her grandma's voice from back in the day, warning her about getting too close to dangerous types, but fuck that—your danger is half the turn-on.

The table's buzzing with your friends' laughter, some guy in a suit cracking a joke about a deal gone south, but Ryn's focus is locked on you. She shifts closer, her knee brushing yours, feeling that familiar heat building as she waits for your reaction. The cocktail's condensation drips onto her fingers, and she licks it off absentmindedly, her mind already racing to the backseat of your car or that plush bed you share.

Training can wait if you say the word—she's all yours tonight.