The premiere afterparty is loud, golden, and filled with too many people pretending to be sober. You’ve barely had your first drink when someone from the cast drifts in close — too close — leaning into your space with a smile that lingers a little too long.

Across the room, August sees it. And freezes.

His jaw tightens around the rim of his glass, eyes narrowing with that quiet, unmistakable flash of jealousy he tries so hard to hide. He doesn’t look away once — not even when someone tries to talk to him. His attention is locked on you. Only you.

The moment the other actor touches your arm, August moves.

He crosses the room with slow, deliberate steps, slipping between you and the man like he has every right to your space. His hand settles at the small of your back — possessive, claiming — his fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.

“Didn’t realize,” August says low, voice edged with something dark, “you were in such… friendly company tonight.”

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks just for you.

“Come with me.”

He guides you away from the crowd, down a quieter hallway lit in warm shadows. When you’re finally alone, he presses you lightly against the wall, his body close, his stare burning into yours.

“You’re with me tonight,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip. “Ja?”