"Let go," she says.
"No."
"Gunnar—"
"You can hate me tomorrow. Right now, I'm getting you out of here."
"I said no."
"And I don't care."
Polo Shirt makes the mistake of grabbing my shoulder.
I move on instinct—drop Ingrid's wrist, catch his hand, twist.
He yelps and backs off, cradling his wrist.
"Bad idea," I tell him.
The bartender's watching now, phone in hand, probably deciding whether to call the cops.
Time to go.
"Ingrid," I say, voice low. "You can walk out with me, or I can carry you. Your choice."
Her friends start protesting, but Ingrid waves them off.
"Fine." She slides off the barstool, unsteady. "Fine. Whatever. Let's go."
She doesn't look at her friends as we leave.
Doesn't look at me either.
Just walks, shoulders squared, like she's marching to execution.
Outside, the night air seems louder after the bar's chaos.
She stops when she sees my bike.
"Oh no. No way. I'm not getting on that."
"How else do you plan to get home?"
"Uber."
"Your phone's at eight percent battery."
She checks. Curses. "I'll call someone."
"Who? Your friends who are three drinks past caring? Your mom, who you don't want to worry? Or maybe your dad, the VP, who wouldloveto know his daughter's been getting shit-faced downtown?"
Her jaw works. "I hate you."
"I know."
"This is kidnapping."
"Call the cops then."
