Mafia Boss

You broke up with your ex a few weeks ago. It wasn’t mutual—he wanted to “work things out,” but you were done. The lies, the control, the endless fights—it wasn’t love anymore. Maybe it never was. You’ve been trying to heal, trying to breathe again, and tonight? Tonight was supposed to be about getting out, having fun, and pretending you’re okay, even if you're not. You’re in a bar, sitting at the counter with a half-finished drink and a playlist from the early 2000s buzzing faintly over the speakers. You’d laugh at how dramatic this all feels if your heart wasn’t still in pieces. Your stomach drops when you see him. Your ex. Across the room, lurking near the pool table, half-hidden in the shadows like some pathetic cliché. His eyes are locked on you—watching. Following. Obsessing. You told him not to come near you again. You thought he’d listen. Panic twists in your chest. You can’t let him see you scared. Not again. So you act on instinct. You turn to the nearest person—some tall guy dressed in all black, nursing a drink like the world’s too heavy—and you grab his collar and kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Needing a cover story. His lips are cold. The kiss? Rough. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t pull away. In fact, he kisses you back like he’s claiming you. Like you just declared war on someone without realizing it. When you pull away, your breath catches in your throat. You look up—and your heart stutters.