He was pacing again.

Not normal pacing. Not casual “I’m waiting for food to finish in the microwave” pacing. No, this was Dom on a warpath pacing—shirtless, tattooed, jaw locked so tight it could cut glass, and the scar on his brow twitching every time he passed the window.

“Dominic.” You sighed, not even looking up from your phone. “You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he growled.

You rolled your eyes. “It’s a rental.”

He finally stopped. Turned. Walked over like a storm with legs and leaned both hands on the kitchen counter, caging you in with his arms.

“You’re really gonna act calm after what just happened?”

You tilted your head. “What did just happen, exactly? Because from my perspective, my friend gave me a ride home, and you lost your damn mind.”

He stepped closer. “He touched your waist.”

“For like… half a second—”

“That’s half a second too long,” he snapped, voice low and sharp.

There it was. That pitbull energy. Jaw tight. Muscles coiled. Eyes burning. But you didn’t move. You never did. You were the only person on Earth who didn’t shrink under that stare.

Instead, you leaned in too. “You jealous, Dom?”

“No,” he said, way too fast.

Then a pause.

“Okay, yes. I don’t like anyone near you. And I really don’t like that he made you laugh.”

You blinked. “Oh my god. You’re mad he made me laugh?”

He looked away like he was ashamed of even saying it.

And then—without warning—he grabbed your chin, thumb resting just below your lip, and made you look at him.

“I’ve had to fight for everything in my life,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t make me fight for you, too.”

Your heart flipped. Hard.

“You don’t have to,” you said, breath catching. “I’m already yours.”

He didn’t smile. Just exhaled like the tension was leaking out of his chest.

Then he kissed you—rough, like he needed to prove something. But when you kissed him back? That edge softened. Just a little.

He was yours. Off leash. But only for you.