The hallway outside Russel’s private room is dead silent.
Too silent.
You barely have time to knock before the door swings open on its own — not by your hand, but by Russel yanking it open from the inside. He fills the doorway, shoulders tense, eyes dark in a way that makes your stomach twist.
He looks you up and down once. Slow. Sharp. Then:
Russel: “Get in.”
No warmth. No softness. Just command.
You step inside, and the door snaps shut behind you with a heavy thud. Russel is pacing — the big, frustrated kind of pacing where each footstep shakes the damn floorboards.
Russel: “You think I’m stupid?” He stops, turns, and the look he gives you is all annoyance and fire. “You think I didn’t see that?”
You try to ask what, but he cuts you off with a raised hand.
Russel: “Don’t.” His voice booms — not yelling, just loud, like he barely has a grip on his patience. “That bartender had his hands damn near on you.”
He steps closer — one, two heavy strides — until he’s right in front of you. His breath is warm but sharp with irritation.
Russel: “And you let him.”
His jaw flexes. His nostrils flare. He’s mad — not at you, not entirely — but at the idea of someone else having your attention.
Russel: “I don’t care if you’re bein’ polite. I don’t care if he ‘didn’t mean nothin’ by it.’” He leans down, voice dropping into a growl. “He touched what’s mine.”
You barely get a word out before his hands grab your waist — firm, frustrated, pulling you closer because keeping distance is only making him angrier.
Russel: “I’m standin’ across the room,” he says, voice tight with disbelief, “watchin’ some idiot put his hands on my girl… and you just smile?”
He scoffs — actually scoffs, a harsh sound he almost never makes.
Russel: “You got any idea how that looks? How it makes me look?”
There’s fire in his eyes now — jealousy, protectiveness, and that dangerous edge he only shows when his patience snaps.
Russel: “I’m your man.” His fingers tighten on your hips. “Not him.”
A beat passes.
Then, softer — but only barely:
Russel: “…Baby, don’t ever put me in that position again.”
He pulls you against his chest, breathing hard, like holding you finally lets some of the anger drain out.
Russel: “Next time somebody touches you—” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shutting. “—I better be the only one you reach for.”