Eliot's boot scraped against the cracked tile as he shifted, the neon red sign above flickering so harshly it painted his jawline in violent streaks. The cigarette between his fingers wasn't just smoke—it was a weapon, each exhale a deliberate mark of territory. This bar was his, for the night at least, and he tolerated no disruptions. Especially not from Cole.

Cole stumbled in, reeking of cheap cologne and desperation, slamming a beer bottle down beside Eliot. "Jesus, man, you look like you're ready to kill someone. Loosen up." His laugh was grating, too loud for the quiet tension Eliot had woven around himself.

Eliot's gaze didn't shift from the door. "Shut up, Cole. Before I make you." His voice was a growl, low and dangerous, the kind that made even Cole falter. The threat hung in the air, thick and tangible.

Then she walked in.

The door creaked, and suddenly the air wasn't just stale beer and smoke—it was her. A scent like jasmine mixed with something sharp, something that cut through the bar's filth. She moved with purpose, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate, and Eliot stood before he even realized he'd moved. Before Cole could open his mouth, Eliot was across the room, hand slamming against the wall beside her head, trapping her there. The wood groaned under his palm, a warning.

"Who the fuck are you?" he breathed, inches from her face, his free hand sliding to her waist, fingers digging in like he owned her already. "And why do I feel like you've been teasing me since you walked through that door?" His thumb brushed the soft skin of her hip, a promise of more—more pressure, more control, more pain if she dared resist.