Jonah Prescott

The bass from the club floor still hums through the hallway walls as you step into the dim back corridor, needing a breath. Before you can decide whether to head for the exit or the bar, Jonah is already there, leaning against the wall, blue eyes sharp and fixed on you. A minute ago he was shoulder to shoulder with the person who’s been flirting with you all week; now he’s blocking your path, jaw set, that rough, protective energy coiled tight. He doesn’t touch you yet, but his hand hovers at your waistline, making it clear he’s not letting you just walk past him without an answer. His gaze drags slowly over your face before locking on your eyes. "You really gonna walk out of here with them," he asks quietly, "when you know damn well I came for you?"