The waiter stood beside our table, pen in hand, waiting patiently as he took down our orders. Kevin, being the most aggressively hungry out of all of us, went first, ordering something with way too many words. Ethan followed, ordering the house special but making sure to specify "no spice, please" like his life depended on it.

Bryan, in true Bryan fashion, barely looked at the menu before saying, "Lo mismo." (The same.)

Kevin shot him a knowing look. "Of course. You never check. You just assume it'll be good."

Bryan didn't even acknowledge him, just leaned back, casually sipping his drink like the unbothered menace that he was. The waiter, nodding, finally turned his attention to me.

"¿Y para usted, señorita?" (And for you, miss?)

And that's when disaster struck.

I knew what I wanted to order. I had spent the last five minutes reading the menu, had planned out my sentence, had mentally prepared to say it flawlessly. But the second everyone's eyes landed on me, my brain promptly decided to shut down.

"Uh..." I started, glancing at the menu like it would magically save me. "Quiero... um... el pescado con..." (I want... um... the fish with...)

The word for vegetables was right there.

I knew it. I had studied it. I had used it before. But at this moment, with the waiter waiting, Ethan watching, and Bryan sitting there looking like he had already predicted this would happen, my brain simply refused to cooperate.

Bryan, barely looking up from his glass, murmured, "Verduras." (Vegetables.)

Relief flooded through me so fast I nearly sighed out loud. "Sí! Con verduras." (Yes! With vegetables.)

The waiter nodded, jotting it down. "¿Algo más?" (Anything else?)

I thought I was in the clear.

But then it happened.

Under the table, hidden from everyone else's view, Bryan's hand landed on my thigh.

My entire body went rigid.

His palm was warm, fingers resting just above my knee, completely casual—like this was a perfectly normal thing for him to be doing.

Except it was absolutely not.

The waiter was still waiting for my answer. Ethan and Kevin were completely oblivious. Bryan? Acting like he wasn't setting my nerves on fire.

"Uh..." I stammered, suddenly unable to think about anything except the fact that Bryan was touching me. "No, eso es todo." (No, that's all.)

The waiter nodded and left, and I exhaled, mentally preparing myself to move on, to just ignore whatever weird moment that had been.

Except Bryan's hand?

Didn't move.

If anything, his thumb started moving.

A slow, absentminded stroke over my skin, tracing small, lazy circles.

I inhaled sharply, fingers gripping my napkin like it was a lifeline.

No one noticed.

Ethan was busy talking to Kevin about something stupid, Kevin was flipping through the drink menu, and Bryan was just sitting there like he wasn't absolutely messing with me under the table.

I turned my head slightly, lowering my voice. "Bryan."

He took a sip of his drink. "Hmm?"

I glared at him. "Your hand."

His thumb dragged up slightly, like he was acknowledging it just to mess with me.

"What about it?" His tone was too casual.

I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my expression normal. "Move it."

Bryan hummed, like he was thinking about it. But instead of moving away, his hand moved up.

A slow, deliberate inch higher.

A thrill shot through me so fast I nearly choked on air.

I wasn't supposed to like this.

I didn't like this.

Right?

I clenched my thighs together, desperate to stop him from going further.

The corner of his mouth ticked up slightly.

Oh my God. He had felt that.

I sent him a glare, but it lacked any real conviction.

Bryan just tilted his head, voice low, teasing. "¿Estás nerviosa, bailarina?" (Are you nervous, ballerina?)

I swallowed hard. "No."

Liar.

His smirk deepened, and his fingers pressed down just enough to make me feel every bit of pressure.

Heat coiled low in my stomach, my pulse quickening despite myself.

I shouldn't be reacting.

I shouldn't want him to keep going.

But when his fingers moved again, creeping slightly higher, teasing the hem of my dress—my breath hitched.

I told myself I was annoyed.

Told myself I wasn't enjoying this.

Told myself I was only letting him do this because I didn't want to make a scene.

But when his fingers slid under the fabric, warm and slow, my whole body betrayed me.

A quiet, unsteady breath slipped past my lips, and Bryan?

He noticed.

I knew it by the way his fingers stilled for just a second, like he had been waiting for that exact reaction.

Oh my God.

I wasn't winning this.

I shifted slightly, trying to create distance, but that only made it worse. The movement pressed me further against his hand, giving him even more access.

His breath was steady, his expression unreadable, but the pressure of his touch told a different story.

He was enjoying this.

He was enjoying watching me try so hard not to react.

I clenched my fingers around my napkin, refusing to let him win, refusing to let him see how much he was affecting me.

And yet...

His fingers kept moving, slow and teasing, sending heat curling through my veins.

A soft exhale escaped me before I could stop it.

Bryan chuckled under his breath. Low. Knowing.

"Liar," he murmured.

I was going to lose it.

And the worst part?

I wasn't sure if I wanted to stop him.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers gripping the tablecloth as he teased my entrance, barely pushing in, just enough to make my walls flutter around nothing.

Oh my God.

The pressure between my legs became unbearable.

Bryan's fingers were too slow, too teasing, too much while giving me not nearly enough. The lazy strokes, the way he would press in just enough to make my body react and then pull back—it was torture.

A rush of heat spread up my neck, my breathing uneven, and I knew—if I didn't leave now, I was going to embarrass myself in front of everyone.

I needed to get out of here.

Bryan must have felt the way my muscles tensed because his fingers slowed, pausing completely, waiting for me to make the next move. Waiting to see if I'd give in.

I exhaled sharply, dropped my napkin onto the table, and pushed back my chair.

"I'll be right back," I said quickly, not even bothering to look at anyone.

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Uh—where are you—?"

"Bathroom."

I barely got the word out before I was already turning away, walking as fast as I could without making it obvious that I was running away.

The second I was in the hallway, away from the table, I let out the breath I'd been holding. My pulse hammered, my body still tingling, still aching from the way Bryan had been touching me.

I pushed open the bathroom door and stepped inside, gripping the edge of the sink for balance. My reflection in the mirror? A complete mess.

My cheeks were flushed, my lips parted, my eyes dark, still heavy with the weight of what had almost happened at the table.

I pressed my thighs together, trying to ease the lingering ache, but it only made it worse. I needed a minute to collect myself.

Just as I was finally catching my breath, the door opened.

I looked up.

Bryan.

Oh, God.