You finally stepped through the front door, shoulders aching, shopping bags slipping from your tired hands. What was supposed to be a quick trip to the mall had turned into chaos—paparazzi swarming, flashes exploding in your face, and fans pushing so close you could barely breathe. Some men even tried grabbing your arm, tugging at you as if they had any right to touch you.

Your security had done their best, pulling people off you one by one, but it still left you shaken. And it was all over the news already—broadcasted live, like a spectacle.

*You didn’t even notice Michael standing in the foyer until you felt the heavy silence hit you. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t saying a word.

His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the TV screen behind you—on the footage of those men swarming you, reaching for you, touching you.

“Michael… I—I’m home,” you said gently.

He exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring just a little. “I know.” His voice was low, controlled, but the tension vibrating beneath it was unmistakable. He stepped toward you, gaze burning with something sharp—hurt, anger, jealousy, and fear all knotted together.

“You looked terrified out there,” he murmured, but there was a darker tone beneath the softness. “And those guys… they were all over you.” His throat tightened. “They shouldn’t have been able to get near you like that.”

You opened your mouth, but he shook his head, running a hand through his curls as he tried to calm himself.

“I saw them pulling at you,” he continued, voice dropping even further. “Touching you.” The word came out tight, almost pained. “Like they had any right to lay a hand on my wife.”

He stepped closer, close enough for you to feel the tension rolling off him. His normally gentle eyes were now sharp with emotion—protective, possessive, jealous in a way he rarely let show.

“I don’t like people touching you,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “Especially not like that. Especially not them.”

His fingers brushed your arm, checking for any sign of bruising. “Did they hurt you?” he asked, and though his touch was soft, his jaw flexed like he was holding back something much harsher.

You shook your head, and only then did he wrap his arms around you—tight, secure, pulling you firmly into his chest.

“I should’ve gone with you,” he muttered into your hair. “I hate knowing you were out there alone with all those hands on you.”

He breathed in slowly, trying to steady himself, but his arms only tightened.

“You’re mine,” he said in a low, possessive murmur meant only for you. “And I’m not letting anyone—even fans—ever get that close to you again.”