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The moment Griffin’s name leaves my lips, something shifts. Liam’s shoulders tense, his jaw going rigid like I’ve just mentioned a live grenade.

Shit. I didn’t mean to bring up my brother. It just happened, the way childhood stories do when you’re comfortable with someone.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” His voice is gentle but final. “Not tonight, Kat. Let’s just... leave that alone.”

Relief floods through me, but it’s mixed with guilt. Because I know there’s ugly history between them, and here I am pretending I don’t have secrets of my own that could blow everything apart.

The wine arrives—a gorgeous Barolo that probably costs more than my monthly car payment. “You know wine.” I watch him swirl the glass with practiced ease, inhaling the bouquet like he’s done this a thousand times.

“I know enough.” But there’s something guarded in his expression, like this expertise comes with memories he’d rather not examine.

I take a sip and have to bite back a moan. It’s liquid silk, complex and perfect, with layers that unfold across my tongue.

“This is incredible. How did you know to order this?”

“Lucky guess.” The deflection is smooth, but I catch the way his fingers tighten around his glass.

We order and fall into conversation that flows easier than the wine. He asks about my work with the team, seems genuinely fascinated by the science behind performance nutrition. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about amino acid profiles, but Liam leans forward, asks questions that prove he’s actually listening.

“So when Marcus was dragging ass during afternoon drills,” he says, “you think it was because he was skipping lunch?”

“Probably. Low blood sugar affects cognitive function as much as physical performance. His reaction time was off, decision-making suffered.” I pause, struck by how natural this feels. “You actually care about this stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Most people don’t. Nutrition science isn’t exactly riveting dinner conversation.”

His eyes darken. “Everything about you is riveting, Kat.”

The words hit me like lightning. For a moment, the restaurant fades away. There’s only him, only us, only the memory of heat and hunger and whispered words that still make me ache.

Then our appetizers arrive, breaking the spell.

The waitress is everything I used to wish I could be—tall, willowy, with effortless blonde beauty that makes magazine covers. She sets down our plates professionally, but when she looks at Liam, she lingers.

Her gaze sweeps over him like he’s dessert and she’s been fasting, and something territorial unfurls in my chest.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, her voice dropping an octave. She’s angled entirely toward Liam, treating me like furniture.

“We’re good, thanks,” I say, but she doesn’t even glance my way.

“Are you sure?” She leans forward, giving him an excellent view. “I could bring you something special from the bar?”

The possessiveness turns molten. I want to grab her perfectly styled hair and remind her that he’s here with me.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement at a nearby table. Someone with what looks suspiciously like a camera phone.

Right. The performance.

Liam follows my gaze, and when he spots our amateur photographer, something lethal slides across his features. The easy warmth disappears, replaced by something cold and dangerous.

When he turns back to our waitress, his voice could freeze hell over.

“I’m here with my girlfriend.” Each word drops like a stone. He reaches across the table, fingers threading through mine with deliberate possession. “Keep it professional.”

The way he says ‘girlfriend’—rough and claiming and absolutely final—sends liquid fire straight to my core. His thumb traces across my knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he’s marking territory.