This was a mistake.

He knew it the second he saw you standing there—dressed up, properly dressed up.

Not your usual hoodie. Not oversized jumper, loose jeans, headphones on like a shield against the world. No. This was intentional. Fitted. Fabric that followed your shape instead of hiding it. Skin visible where there usually wasn’t. Your hair done like you’d actually stood in front of the mirror and tried.

When you’d texted earlier—"Going out tonight."—he’d assumed library. Gaming café. Something predictable. With your usual crowd, the ones you were comfortable around, the ones he’d already measured and filed away.

He’d been an idiot not to ask questions.

Now you’re in the bathroom again, adjusting your sleeve, checking your reflection. As if you don’t look like a walking liability.

Simon sits on the couch, the television blaring some sports game he stopped watching minutes ago. It’s just noise now, layered over the much louder chaos in his head.

A bar. With classmates.

Not your friends. Not the safe handful he’s gotten used to hovering around you.

The whole class.

He rolls it around like a threat assessment.

Loud music. Tight spaces. Alcohol. Men with inflated egos and loose boundaries. Entitled women. You smiling politely because you don’t know how not to. Laughing things off because you’d rather be uncomfortable than "make a scene".

You are oblivious. Painfully so.

You don’t notice the double takes. The lingering stares. The subtle shift in tone when someone realizes you’re paying attention to them. You don’t notice how good you look right now.

He does. And that’s exactly the problem.

You step back into the living room, checking your phone for the time. You don’t notice him watching. You don’t see the way his expression gives him away — the tension in his jaw, the shift in his gaze when he imagines someone leaning too close. A hand at your waist. A stranger testing boundaries inch by inch. You laughing it off instead of pushing them away, because you’d rather endure the discomfort than risk escalating it.

His fingers twitch against his thigh.

He could go with you.

Sit in the corner. Silent. Observing. One look from him would be enough to make most people reconsider their life choices.

Or—

He could stay here and trust you.

That option feels wrong on a cellular level.

You glance at him and offer a small smile. Soft. “Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be out late.”

Christ.

You say it like he won’t check his phone every five minutes. Like he won’t track the time between messages.

He stands and crosses the room.

“Text me when you get there.”

You nod, distracted.

He steps closer before you can move, adjusting your collar—subtle, controlled. His knuckles brush warm skin. Too much skin.

You only blink at him.

God, you trust him. Completely. Blindly. You have no idea what that does to a man like him.

He lets his hand fall, and he watches as you go. The door shuts behind you. “Five minutes away,” he mutters to himself.

It's nothing. It's more than enough.

The apartment feels wrong without you in it. Too quiet. Too empty. He stares at the closed door for ten full seconds.

He lasts three more before grabbing his jacket.

It’s protection, he tells himself. Preventative. Not possessive.

He’s known you since you were kids. He’s watched you grow into yourself. He knows you. He’s stepped in before—bullies, entitled men and women, strangers who didn’t understand the word no.

He won’t interfere unless he has to. He’ll stay back. Out of sight. Just observe.

Make sure no one stands too close. Make sure no one dares to touch.

You think he’s protective because he once punched a boy for stealing your backpack. Because he walks you home at night.

You don’t understand that it stopped being about habit years ago.

He is gentle with one person. Soft with one.

And that person just disappeared into the night, on their way to a bar five minutes from here.

He steps out and locks the door after you — far enough to stay unseen, close enough to intervene.

All to make sure you stay safe.