“You shouldn’t even know I’m here,” I hiss.
He leans in, elbows braced on the table, tattoos shifting across his knuckles as he drums them once, twice—a metronome for my impending ruin. “Darling, I’ve known where you’ve been since you were fifteen. You really think you could sneak anywhere without me noticing?”
My throat goes dry. He says it like a confession and a threat all at once. Like he’s been the shadow behind me for half a decade.
“I’m not yours,” I snap.
His laugh is low, cruel, but not humourless. It’s a sound that should be a warning, but it feels like an invitation. “You keep saying that, but you’re still sitting next to me.”
I hate the way my legs tense under the table. I hate the way he tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved and discarded. I hate that my drink is empty, and I can’t decide if I want another—or if I want him instead.
“You’re drunk,” I mutter.
“Not enough,” he says, sliding the glass out of my hand, setting it aside like I don’t get choices tonight. He does it with a terrifying casualness, a man who has never been told no and wouldn’t understand the word if he were.
My palms go hot. My chest goes tight. I should getup, storm out, text my best friend and tell her that her brother’s a fucking lunatic. But I don’t move. Because his eyes—blue, darker than hers ever were, the colour of the sky just before it goes black—pin me in place. And he’s not even touching me.
“Why me?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
He shrugs, lazy, wicked. “Because you were stupid enough to keep looking back.”
The booth feels smaller with him in it, even though he hasn’t moved closer. He doesn’t need to. His presence eats the space, a black hole of charisma and malice.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, crossing my arms.
“Like what?” His tone is smooth, lazy, but his gaze never flinches.
“Like you’ve already won.”
That grin sharpens. “Darling, you don’t sit across from me if I’ve already lost.”
My stomach knots. I force my eyes to the sticky table, to the smear of glitter someone left behind, to the scars on the wood that look like they were made by someone trying to claw their way out. “Cocky,” I mutter.
“Confident.” He corrects me like it’s fact, like the words are carved into his very DNA. “There’s a difference.”
I laugh under my breath, bitter. “You always were full of yourself.”
“And you always liked it.”
That makes me look at him. Stupid mistake. He’s smiling like he just ripped the secret out of my chest and found it beautiful.
“I don’t like you.”
“Sure,” he drawls, leaning back, stretching his arm along the back of the booth like he’s setting a trap, his fingers mere inches from my hair. “That’s why you can’t stop staring at my mouth.”
Heat flashes in my cheeks before I can stop it. I shift in my seat, pretending I didn’t just get caught wondering if his lips taste as cold as his eyes look.
He watches me fumble, head tilted, all slow amusement and sharp edges. “You’re so easy to read, Darling. Always have been.”
My nails dig into my palm under the table. “Call me that again and I’ll throw my glass in your face.”
His smirk widens. “Good. I like it when you fight.”
There’s silence after that. Not empty—charged. The air feels heavy, pressurised, like the moment the hammer of a gun pulls back. His fingers tap once against the wood. My pulse answers, traitorous, pounding hard enough I’m afraid he can hear it through the music.
I swallow, my voice unsteady but sharp. “Why are you here?”
He shrugs, casual, but his eyes stay on me like they’re shackles. “Because you are.”
