Briggs’ POV
The words are still hanging between us when the music slams back in.
She looks at me like she wants to argue, like she should. But she doesn’t.
And the second she goes quiet, I made the decision for both of us. My hand closes around her wrist firmly, but not rough. But there’s no space for hesitation in it.
“Come on.”
“Briggs—”
“Now.”
I don’t raise my voice, I don’t need to. I turn and move, and she follows. Not willingly, but she doesn’t pull away either. That tells me everything I need to know.
The club swallows us as we push through it, lights flashing, bodies pressing in, noise swallowing words that don’t matter anymore.
Her fingers flex once in my grip, testing. I tighten just enough for her to feel it. A warning not to fight me. To stop pretending.
By the time
