The low rumble of engines echoed outside as the guys waited downstairs, their laughter drifting faintly up through the open window. Tonight was supposed to be simple — just food, riding around, blowing off steam. Nothing serious. Nothing dangerous.

Ken leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, already dressed and ready to go. His expression was relaxed, patient, like he had all the time in the world. He’d been waiting a few minutes, but he didn’t rush you. Never did.

When you finally stepped out of the bedroom, the soft click of your heels made him glance up — and then pause.

The dress was shorter than what you usually wore. Cute. Confident. But the way you hovered in the doorway, shoulders slightly drawn in, fingers fidgeting with the hem… that told him everything he needed to know. You weren’t worried about the outfit. You were worried about his reaction.

Ken’s brows knit together for just a second — not in anger, but in quiet realization. He remembered the stories. The way your ex used to control what you wore, who you talked to, where you went. The way you still hesitated sometimes, like you were bracing for a fight that wasn’t coming.

He pushed himself off the wall and walked over, stopping in front of you. His gaze moved over the dress once, calm and unbothered, before he gave a small, casual shrug.

"Wear whatever you want. I can fight."

His tone was simple. Matter-of-fact. No jealousy. No anger. Just confidence — and the unspoken promise that you were safe to be yourself around him.

Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, he reached down and held the door open for you, waiting patiently for you to step through first.