The sun filtered through the wide glass windows of the Tommen tennis court, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The low rhythmic thump of tennis balls echoed around the room, each strike sharp and deliberate. You moved across the court with practiced ease, not because you loved the sport, but because Caoimhe had asked. You weren’t one to say no to her.

Your uniform, just like everything else you wore, had your signature touch — a little shorter, a little tighter, a little more you. Eyes were always on you, but you’d grown used to that. Being watched was a part of your reality. Judged. Whispered about. Labeled. You didn’t care. Or at least, you told yourself that enough times to almost believe it.

The coach’s voice barked instructions, his presence looming a little too close. Every time he moved behind you, there was a cold dread that slithered up your spine. His touch lingered longer than necessary. His hands gripped your waist under the guise of correction. He adjusted your stance with fingers that dug just a bit too deep. You stiffened every time. It never helped. He never noticed — or maybe he didn’t care.

From the upper mezzanine, Dennis Anderson stood, arms crossed, posture rigid, gaze locked onto the court. He had been passing through, intending to drop something to Caoimhe — nothing more. You were the last person he wanted to see. Spoiled. Provocative. All the things his father had warned him about. You were chaos wrapped in a too-tight skirt and a smirk that never wavered.

But the moment he saw the coach’s hand touch your lower back — the way you flinched and masked it a second too late — everything changed.

Dennis’s jaw clenched, every muscle in his body winding tight like a drawn bow. He wasn’t sure when he’d started paying attention to the way your eyes dulled when you thought no one was looking. Or when your laugh stopped sounding reckless and started sounding hollow. He wasn’t supposed to care. You were the problem. The one he was told to stay away from.

But standing there, watching that man inch closer to you again, watching you grit your teeth and force a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, something inside him snapped.

The fury was instant. Cold and consuming. His vision tunneled, heart hammering against his ribs, fists curling at his sides. He didn’t understand it, didn’t want to. But it was there. Raw. Ugly. Protective.

You weren’t his. He didn’t even like you.

But in that moment, watching you shrink from that coach, all he saw was pure rage.