You’ve always known Ian was protective. The type to walk you to your car, stare down anyone who looked at you too long, and check in with a “did you eat?” text more often than he probably should. But it never felt like this.

Tonight, you show up in something new—something a little risky, a little bold—and Ian goes quiet the second he sees you. Not teasing. Not joking. Just watching. Like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“You good?” you ask, laughing, brushing past him.

He doesn’t answer. Not right away. Just follows you the whole night like a shadow—tense, unreadable, barely speaking. It’s not until someone else leans a little too close, their hand brushing your waist, that Ian snaps.

“Back off,” he growls, stepping between you like it’s instinct.

The guy laughs, confused, then walks off. You stare at Ian, heart racing. “What the hell was that?”

“I’m done pretending,” he says, voice low and sharp. “Done watching guys touch you like they have the right. I should be the one holding you. I should be the one you come home to.”