The security guys from the store. Martinez and Harris, both looking more casual than I've ever seen them, in jeans and t-shirts instead of their usual uniforms. They scan the bar with habitual vigilance, even off-duty.

And, right behind them⁠—

Callahan.

My breath catches in my throat. He's wearing dark jeans and a simple black t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders in a way his work shirts never did, revealing the full extent of his tattoos. The ink curls down his forearms in intricate patterns I've only caught glimpses of before. His hair is slightly tousled, less controlled than at work. He looks different. Dangerous. Even more magnetic.

And he's walking straight toward us.

SHE CALLS ME COMFY AND I GET HARD

CAL

The moment I leave Izzy alone with Amanda, I can still feel her. The heat of her back under my palm. The way she looked at me after Evan humiliated her—like she wasn't sure what she was supposed to feel. Like part of her was angry but part of her still thought maybe she deserved it.

That part makes me want to put my fist through a wall.

Or through Evan's face.

That would be better. More satisfying.

It took a painful amount of effort to not deck him earlier. The only reason I didn't was because she didn't ask me to. Because as much as I want to fight her battles for her, she has to be the one to walk away from him.

Still. I wanted to break his fucking nose.

Instead, I do my rounds.

I move through the store, hitting my checkpoints—exits, feeds, staff. The usual sounds echo around me: doors clicking shut, the quiet buzz of electronics, the muffled voices of early shoppers.

Still, my focus slips. Back to her. Back to the conversation I can’t stop replaying.

To the way her voice shook when she said she wasn't happy. To the way she vented to me like she's been venting to Caleb.

Which is a very, very dangerous fucking thing.

I push the thought away, shaking my head as I finish up for the night. Some of the security guys linger near the front, waiting for me. Their voices echo in the nearly empty store, casual conversation filling the silence.

"Callahan," Martinez claps me on the shoulder. "It's Friday. We always go grab drinks after closing. You in?"

I hesitate. I've been watching Izzy's feed off and on all night. I know exactly where she is. As soon as five o'clock hit, Amanda grabbed her, and they went down the street to that Mexican place. Currently? They're drinking margaritas the size of my fucking head.

I could just head home.

Or...

I glance at Martinez. "I'm actually in the mood for tacos."

Harris chimes in. "There's a place just down the street."

I nod. "Sounds good."

Internally, I know exactly what I'm doing.

I know I'm getting myself into full stalker territory.

But I can't help myself.

The second I step into the restaurant, I spot her.

Amanda sees me first. I don't hear what she says, but I see her immediately turn toward Izzy and point straight at me. Subtle.

Izzy blinks, slow and confused. Then she locks eyes with me. And I can tell from twenty feet away—she's drunk.

Very, very drunk.

I was just going to hang back. Let her have her night. Not interfere. Then Amanda, professional troublemaker that she is, waves the entire team down.

Christ.

Before I even have time to consider bailing, I'm being ushered toward their booth. Amanda grins at me, completely devious. "Hey, Callahan. Sit with us."

I open my mouth to object, but before I can say anything, she literally shoves me down into the booth.

Right next to Izzy.

Izzy, who is swaying slightly, tequila-bright eyes blinking up at me, warm and lazy. Her shoulder leans into mine, soft and pliant, and suddenly I have a new fucking problem. She smells like vanilla and margaritas and whatever shampoo she uses that's been slowly killing me all week.

She tilts her head up at me, lips parted slightly, dazed. "You came here for tacos?"

"Something like that."

She giggles and fuck the sound makes my cock stir.

Harris tries to sit next to Amanda, but before his ass even touches the booth, she shoves a hand into his chest.

"Ew, no. We tried it. It didn't work. Give up."

The rest of the guys burst out laughing. Amanda, completely unbothered, scans the group like she's picking players for dodgeball.

She lands on Ramirez. Points at him.

"You can sit next to me," she decides. "And later, you can kiss me. But no tongue." She cocks her head to the side, as if thinking. "Well, tongue but only if I initiate tongue first."

Ramirez, who is either confused or in love, immediately sits down.

I shake my head, watching this circus unfold. "That girl is crazy," I mutter.

I don't realize I said it out loud until Izzy laughs, leaning into me even more.

"Yeah," she sighs, shaking her head. "She really is."

Her hair grazes my arm. She’s pressed against me, all curves and heat, completely unaware of the chaos she’s causing.

I should move.

But I don't.

I let her stay close.

Amanda, as expected, gets drunker. Halfway through the night, she ditches us to make out with Ramirez.

Izzy and I stay in the booth, surrounded by my guys, chatting about nothing. At some point, I feel her head drop slightly against my shoulder.

I glance down. She's half-asleep, eyes barely open. Her margarita is still half-full, condensation dripping onto the table.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face.

I already know what I'm about to do. I turn to her, speaking low. "Come on. We're gonna go get your car."

She blinks up at me sleepily. "Hmm?"

She furrows her brows, like she's about to argue. Then she closes her eyes again.

And that's my answer.

I slide out of the booth, pulling her with me.

And I already know⁠—

There's no way in hell I'm letting her take an Uber home in this state.

No way in hell I'm letting her get into a stranger's car. And no fucking way that I'm letting anyone else take care of her.

She's mine tonight.

We walk out of the restaurant. Well, walk is a strong word because Izzy is not walking in a straight line. We make slow progress, but we finally make it back to the store and down the elevator.

Her heels click against the concrete of the parking garage as she sways slightly, gripping my arm. The garage smells of exhaust and cold concrete, our footsteps echoing in the nearly empty space.

"I think..." she sighs, leaning heavily against me. "I had too many margaritas."

"You don't say," I mutter, guiding her toward her car.

She giggles, the sound light and unguarded, like it snuck out before she could stop it.

I shake my head, a grin tugging at my lips. "I'm driving."

She pouts, but it lasts for all of two seconds before I open the passenger door and help her in. Her hair falls in front of her face, and before I can think better of it, I brush it back, tucking the loose strands gently behind her ear.

She freezes for half a second.

Then she smiles at me, slow and syrupy, eyes half-lidded.

"You're so nice to me, Cal."

I ignore that, because I have to.

"Seatbelt."

She hums, fumbling with it, her coordination shot from the tequila.

I watch her struggle for a full five seconds before sighing and leaning in, pulling the strap across her myself. The belt makes a smooth sound as it extends, clicking into place near her hip.