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He leans in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “Come outside with me.”

I should say no.

I should.

But I don’t.

I nod.

The second the cold night air hits my skin, I regret this.

Not because I don’t want answers. Not because I don’t want him.

But because I already know how this is going to go.

The tension between us is thick, coiling like a storm about to break. Graham’s grip on my wrist is firm but not tight—like he’s holding onto control with the same vice grip he has on everything else in his life. He doesn’t say a word as he leads me around the side of the building, away from the music, the flashing lights, and the crowd of people spilling onto King Street.

It’s quieter back here, the noise of the city muffled by brick walls and distance. The streetlamps cast long shadows, the glow of the neon bar sign flickering against the alleyway pavement.

He finally stops, releasing me as he turns to face me.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—they give him away.

Frustration.

Possession.

Something else, something heavier, something I don’t want to name.

I cross my arms, shifting my weight onto one foot. “Alright, Callahan. What the hell are you doing here?”

His jaw tics, his fingers flexing like he’s itching to grab something—me, maybe. “You texted me.”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You know I didn’t.”

“You didn’t stop me from coming,” he counters, stepping closer. “So what do you want, Anastasia?”

My breath catches, but I don’t let him see it. “Oh, screw you,” I snap, heat rushing to my face. “You were the one who went radio silent the second I told you I had plans. Didn’t ask a single fucking question. Didn’t check in. And now, suddenly, I’m supposed to be grateful that you showed up because Vee decided to play matchmaker?”

His nostrils flare. “You wanted me to ask?”

I throw up my hands. “I don’t know, Graham! Maybe! Maybe I just wanted to know if you actually gave a shit or if I was just another thing you could pick up and put down whenever it was convenient for you!”

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid. “That’s what you think?” His voice is quiet, but there’s steel beneath it.

I swallow, my pulse hammering. “What am I supposed to think?”

His eyes flash. “You think I don’t care?”

“I think,” I spit out, voice shaking, “that you don’t know what you want.”

He exhales harshly, raking a hand through his hair. “I want this—” He gestures between us, then shakes his head, expression darkening. “But I can’t—we can’t⁠—”

I wait, heart pounding.

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

And that—that right there is the problem.