"There," he mutters, tilting his head toward the direction of his find. It's impossible to miss now—Kavinsky, leaning against the far wall like he owns the place, the light catching on the razor-edged angles of his face and the unmistakable arrogance in his posture. Even in the middle of this mess, he stands out like a lit match in the dark.
"Come on," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he cuts through the crowd, expecting Quentin to follow without question. People around him seem to peel back, bodies swaying and shifting to make way without him having to push. Ronan doesn't waste time. Standing toe-to-toe with Kavinsky, his voice cuts through the bass like a blade.
"You got it or not?" No posturing, no pleasantries—just straight to the point, his tone low and rough. His eyes stay locked on Kavinsky's, unblinking, daring him to screw around.
Kavinsky's grin widens, as if he's savoring the moment. He tips his head back slightly, exposing his throat in a gesture that's equal parts arrogance and provocation. "Relax, Lynch," he drawls, the words dripping with mockery.
Ronan doesn't budge, his stance solid, unyielding. "I think you like hearing yourself talk," he bites back, the faintest edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "So, do you have it?"
Kavinsky's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke around them. "Of course I have it."
Kavinsky's grin lingers as he dips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a small, tightly wrapped baggie. He holds it between two fingers, just out of reach.
"See? Always deliver." His voice is silk wrapped around a razor blade, smug and dripping with self-satisfaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Lynch?"
Ronan doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even blink. He just holds out his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
For a moment, Kavinsky doesn't move. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drops the bag into Ronan's waiting hand. "Don't blow through it all at once," he says with a crooked smile, stepping back just enough to let the space between them breathe. "Unless you're planning on coming back for more."
Ronan's fingers close around the baggie, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he turns, the movement sharp and decisive, leaving Kavinsky standing there with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
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"Come on," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he cuts through the crowd, expecting Quentin to follow without question. People around him seem to peel back, bodies swaying and shifting to make way without him having to push. Ronan doesn't waste time. Standing toe-to-toe with Kavinsky, his voice cuts through the bass like a blade.
"You got it or not?" No posturing, no pleasantries—just straight to the point, his tone low and rough. His eyes stay locked on Kavinsky's, unblinking, daring him to screw around.
Kavinsky's grin widens, as if he's savoring the moment. He tips his head back slightly, exposing his throat in a gesture that's equal parts arrogance and provocation. "Relax, Lynch," he drawls, the words dripping with mockery.
Ronan doesn't budge, his stance solid, unyielding. "I think you like hearing yourself talk," he bites back, the faintest edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "So, do you have it?"
Kavinsky's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke around them. "Of course I have it."
Kavinsky's grin lingers as he dips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a small, tightly wrapped baggie. He holds it between two fingers, just out of reach.
"See? Always deliver." His voice is silk wrapped around a razor blade, smug and dripping with self-satisfaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Lynch?"
Ronan doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even blink. He just holds out his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
For a moment, Kavinsky doesn't move. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drops the bag into Ronan's waiting hand. "Don't blow through it all at once," he says with a crooked smile, stepping back just enough to let the space between them breathe. "Unless you're planning on coming back for more."
Ronan's fingers close around the baggie, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he turns, the movement sharp and decisive, leaving Kavinsky standing there with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
"Let's go."