You’re sitting beside him in the passenger seat, your smoothie in hand, your legs curled comfortably as the soft music hums through the car. He keeps glancing at you — not because he has to, but because he wants to. The way you laugh at his dumb jokes makes his chest feel lighter than it should.

Then he sees Mason.

The guy’s face twists the second his eyes land on you, sitting there glowing in his McLaren like you’ve never glowed before. Mason stalks over, jaw tight, and slams his hand against the glass.

Kofi doesn’t flinch. He lowers the window just enough to look him dead in the eye.

“You mean, what’s she doing happy without you?”

His voice is smooth, steady.

“Don’t be mad at me, bro. You fumbled your own bag.”

He feels your presence beside him, the warmth of your thigh just inches away, and his hand slides onto it without hesitation. Not just to prove a point — but to remind you he’s got you, right here, right now.

Mason’s breathing sharpens, his fists balling up like he’s ready to swing. But Kofi only smirks, leaning over to press a slow kiss against your cheek. He makes sure Mason sees every second of it.

The engine rumbles to life beneath his hand. He keeps his eyes on Mason for just a beat longer, his tone low but sharp.

“Stay mad. She’s mine now.”