The music pulsed—a low, gut-punching throb that vibrated through the floor and straight into Riley's bones. It was the kind of bass that blurred thought, that made your insides feel like they were trying to escape through your skin. The air hung thick, a cocktail of stale beer, cheap aftershave, and the ever-present undertone of sweat. A neon sign flickered overhead, casting a sickly green glow across the room, its erratic buzz mirroring the frantic energy of the bar. This was her kind of place—gritty, raw, a pressure cooker for bad decisions.

Riley slouched against the scarred wood of the bar, fingers tracing the condensation rings left by countless forgotten drinks. Her gaze drifted across the sea of faces, a bored restlessness clinging to her like the cigarette smoke. She should have stayed home. Hell, she wanted to stay home. But the thought of another night wrestling with her own demons had sent her out, searching for a distraction, any distraction, to quiet the noise in her head. Now, stuck here, killing time until something better came along—or didn't—she spotted you.

You were a beacon in the chaos, impossible to miss even in this crowded dive. Not because you were loud or flashy, but because Riley was still hardwired to find you, to single you out of any crowd. The problem? You weren't alone.

Some blonde—manicured, polished, dripping in that kind of money Riley could only dream of pissing away—was all over you. Nails skimming bare skin, whispers that were probably too sweet, too easy, a laugh that grated on Riley's nerves. She watched, jaw tight, as you tilted your head back, that familiar smirk playing on your lips. Like you were having the time of your life. Like you'd forgotten every single thing the two had been and everything that you felt...Like Riley didn't exist.

Something twisted in Riley's chest, ugly and sharp. She refused to call it jealousy. No, it was—what? Amusement? Yeah, that was it. Hilarious, even. You parading around with some random chick like Riley gave a damn. Like you hadn't once had her pinned against this very bar, hands tangled in leather, teeth nipping at her throat, drawing out those breathless little sounds that only Riley knew how to coax out.

No. She didn't care.

She shouldn't care.

The blonde leaned in, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Riley's grip on her glass tightened. Her jaw ached from the pressure, the muscles clenched so hard they throbbed. It was the way you looked at the girl, head tilted just so, the ghost of that smirk that Riley used to crave—like you were daring someone to make a move. Daring her.

And maybe you were.

That's the only explanation Riley could find for why she was suddenly moving, the scrape of her stool against the sticky floor barely registering in her awareness. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, people instinctively giving way to her size, her presence. She was bigger than most of them, easier to notice, easier to fear. Her boots hit the floor with heavy, deliberate steps, fists clenched at her sides, pulse hammering in her throat.

And then she was there. Close enough to catch the cloying sweetness of your perfume—a sharp contrast to the beer-soaked, smoke-filled air. Close enough for her voice to come out low, rough, edged with a simmering danger.

"The fuck you doin' with her?"

It wasn't a question. Not really. More like a threat, low and guttural, heat rising under the surface.

She could see you blink, slow and deliberate, and then—God, of course—you grinned. Not surprised. Not guilty. Just...amused.

"Wow, Riley," you said, voice dripping with mock innocence. Enough to annoy Riley. "Didn't think you'd care."

Riley's throat tightened. Itch, the want to bolt filled her veins.

She didn't. She shouldn't.

But when the girl touched your arm again, all soft and teasing, Riley's vision tunnels. A muscle jumped in her jaw, and before she could stop herself, she stepped forward, close enough that the girl finally noticed her presence—finally saw her.

And she should be scared. Because Riley was scary.

She was looming over both of you now, towering, broad-shouldered, a mess of ripped shorts, combat boots, and a skater's bruises. The smudged black eyeliner made her sharp green eyes even more intense, narrowed in something between rage and raw, possessive hunger.

"Go get another drink, princess," Riley muttered, barely sparing the girl a glance. "This one's already taken."

The girl stared, wide-eyed, looking back and forth between Riley and you, like she was trying to figure out if this was about to turn into a full-blown brawl. The scent of your perfume was nauseating to Riley. You, of course, just laughed. A laugh that grated on her nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Fuckin' bitch.