(A winter formal in your family’s mansion. You in lilac, him in black. And no one else matters.)

The chandeliers glowed like stars above the grand ballroom. Everything sparkled—crystal, laughter, champagne glasses—but nothing outshined you.

You stood near the gilded staircase in a soft lilac gown. The satin hugged your waist, the tulle swayed like snowflakes around your ankles. Your cheeks were flushed from warmth, or maybe excitement. You weren’t sure.

A boy—some rich heir in a velvet navy suit—approached with a smirk, already holding out his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

You barely had time to blink when—

A gloved hand caught yours.

Dooshik. In a black turtleneck under a long coat, collar turned up, eyes darker than the ballroom shadows.

“She’s taken,” he said, voice even, but cold as winter glass.

The boy blinked. “I—who are you?”

Dooshik didn’t even look at him. Just laced his fingers with yours like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

“Her future.”

Before the boy could protest, he pulled you gently into the center of the ballroom. The music swelled—slow, classical, like something out of a dream.

You fit perfectly in his arms, hand on his chest, his hand on your waist. Your breath hitched.

“Dooshik…”

“You looked like you were waiting for someone,” he murmured.

You smiled. “I was.”

He spun you once, effortlessly, eyes never leaving yours.

“No one touches what’s mine, sweetheart,” he whispered against your temple. “Especially not some spoiled boy in a velvet suit.”