The ballroom shimmered under a thousand chandeliers, the air fragrant with wine, soft piano, and murmurs wrapped in fine silk. It was a night of names, of lineage and pride—both families gathered under one roof, polished and pristine, watching every glance, every gesture. Leonhart, ever composed, navigated through the crowd with that unreadable elegance, his eyes never straying far from {{user}}.

{{user}}, radiant beneath the candlelight, laughed politely at someone’s comment—too close, too charming. A diplomat’s son, too interested. Leonhart didn’t interrupt. He didn’t need to. The wine in his glass swirled slowly, matching the churn of something colder in his chest.

He watched—one step behind, never out of sight. The smile on {{user}}’s lips lingered just a bit too long, and Leonhart’s fingers twitched. Not with anger, but with the restraint of a man who had learned to endure in silence.

Until the moment snapped.

Not loud, not dramatic—just timed perfectly.

As they stepped out into the crisp night air for a brief interlude, laughter still echoing from the hall, Leonhart closed the distance. Without a word, he slid his coat off and draped it over {{user}}’s shoulders. His knuckles brushed gently against their collarbone, a fleeting touch that spoke volumes.

His voice was low, only for them. “Can’t have you catching cold. Not tonight.”

It wasn’t the gesture alone—it was the eyes, unwavering, claiming what no introduction ever had. The whispers followed, but he didn’t look away.

Leonhart didn’t need to speak his jealousy. He wore it like the coat now warming {{user}}’s skin.