The club is dark and loud, all pulsing bass and blurred faces—until a warm hand closes around your wrist and pulls you toward the hallway lit in deep amber. Oliver steps in front of you, leather jacket catching the glow, eyes sharp and unreadable as he blocks anyone else’s view. He’s just intercepted you from another person’s orbit, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We need to talk,” he says, but the way he looks at your mouth gives away that talking isn’t the only thing on his mind. Out here, with the noise muffled and his body between you and the party, it feels less like a warning and more like a claim.
He braces one hand on the wall beside your head, gaze locked on yours as the hallway hums behind you. "So," he murmurs, voice low and steady, "were you really going to leave with them… or were you hoping I’d stop you?"
