The space between us shrinks to nothing but charged air. His eyes blaze with anger, clearly unhappy to see me here. His body is coiled tension, jaw clenched tight, the strong column of his neck betraying a pulse that hammers as rapidly as my own. I could count each dark eyelash if I wanted to, we're that close—close enough that I feel the heat radiating from him, see the smallest flecks of color in his irises as they narrow on mine.

"What are you doing here?"

"Hi to you too," I retort, my irritation rising to match his.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice is razor-sharp.

I scoff, “You should stick to sparkling water; it might lighten your mood."

He takes a small step back, his eyes rake over me, leaving burn marks in their wake. "What the actual fuck are you wearing?" he sneers, his gaze glassy and hollow—any warmth from this morning has evaporated, replaced by drug-induced fog and simmering rage.

Oh, now he wants to pick a fight?

I pull away from his hold, squaring my shoulders. "Clothing," I say flatly.

"That glorified washcloth is not clothing. You look ridiculous," he mocks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with deliberate slowness, while completely disregarding the fact that we’re indoors.

Is he for real right now?

I fight the urge to shrink beneath his criticism, to cover the parts of myself he's made me doubt. Instead, his sneer ignites something defiant in me.

"Well, good to know your eyes are working," I snap back, plastering on a sweet smile. "Connor seems to like it."

“He likes it because he can see your tits and is probably picturing his face between them," Nate retorts, exhaling smoke like venom.

In one fluid motion, I snatch the cigarette from his lips and drop it in my untouched drink. "Very vivid image you're painting, Nate. Almost sounds like you've pictured it yourself."

He crowds me against a table I hadn't noticed, caging me with his arms once again. His dark hair falls in his eyes but can't hide his dilated pupils or bloodshot whites. I force my expression neutral, even as my heart races at our proximity.

Without warning or taking his eyes off me, he shrugs off his button-up and thrusts it at me. "Put it on."

"I'm good, thanks," I say coolly.

"Why are you being so fucking difficult?" His breath is mint and spice, tinged with weed—an intoxicating combination that does nothing to calm my nerves.

"It seems you're the one with a problem here, Nate." I shove his shirt back at him and pat his chest lightly. Our faces inches apart, tension crackling between us.

Connor's voice cuts through the moment. "Sullivan, stop bothering my date." He drapes an arm around my shoulders, radiating smug satisfaction while holding two beer bottles.

I don't look at Nate, but I feel the fury rolling off him in waves.

Nate's control snaps. "She's not your date."