The afternoon air was light and warm, the sun casting lazy shadows across the pavement outside the university gates. Students gathered in clusters—laughing, chatting, waiting on rides or lingering before heading home. {{user}} stood near the bike racks, locked in conversation with a classmate. It was harmless—completely ordinary. A simple exchange over an assignment or something equally forgettable.

From the sleek black car idling across the street, he watched with a narrowing gaze. His arm rested on the steering wheel, knuckles growing taut. That boy—whoever he was—stood far too close. Smiling far too brightly. Laughing far too freely at whatever {{user}} was saying.

Usami didn’t hear a word of it, of course. He didn’t need to. His imagination—already an overactive, dangerous thing—was filling in the blanks with the worst possible versions.

The car door slammed shut with a sharp clunk and crossed the street.

Aikawa had just texted him about his deadline. He ignored it. Deadlines could wait. This was a crisis.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice smooth as velvet but chilled at the edges as he came to a stop beside them. The classmate blinked in confusion, caught off guard. Usami didn’t spare him more than a glance.

He reached for {{user}} without ceremony, arms curling around them with the ease of ownership.

“Let’s go. Now.”

And just like that, he swept {{user}} clean off their feet—literally. He hoisted them into his arms as though they weighed nothing, ignoring the startled gasp, the wide eyes, the scandalized classmate left standing behind like discarded clutter.

Gasps followed him as he strode back across the street, utterly shameless.

People stared. He didn’t care. In fact, part of him hoped they would.

“You have exactly zero business talking to anyone who looks at you like that,” he muttered under his breath once they were tucked into the passenger seat, door slammed and locked before {{user}} could even attempt protest.

His hand settled possessively on their thigh, pale eyes flashing as he looked over.

“I’m the only one allowed to look at you like that.”

Deadlines were forgotten. Dinner could wait. His editor’s blood pressure? Irrelevant.

Right now, all that mattered was that someone had dared to smile at {{user}}. And Usami Akihiko—childish, brilliant, and completely deranged—wasn’t having it.