I'm at a concert, and you're the lead singer, getting ready to perform. We've been secretly dating. I'm the drummer—right behind you on stage—but when those girls and guys started screaming your name like they were ready to throw their underclothes at you, I snapped.

Mid-song, I stopped drumming. Stood up. Walked straight to you and yanked the mic from your hand without a word.

I grab the mic and announce to the entire crowd that you are my mine. I tell them to back off, warning them that if they even think about you, they'll regret it.

Then I demand you to start singing while keeping a sharp eye on anyone who dares smile at you.

“Now… sing,” I ordered you to sing.

I hold my drumstick tight like a weapon, scanning the crowd. Whoever smiles at you is dead.