The second you walked out in that outfit, my stomach twisted. It wasn’t just hot — it was dangerous. The way the lights hit your skin, the cut of the fabric hugging every line of your body, I knew what the crowd was going to see. And I hated it.

I clenched the mic tighter in my hand, forcing a smile, but my eyes never left you. Every time someone in the front row leaned forward, I felt my chest tighten. They don’t get to look at you like that. Not the way I do.

When you turned slightly, teasing the crowd without even realizing, I stepped closer, close enough so the cameras might catch us in the same frame. My hand brushed your arm deliberately, like a silent warning: remember whose you are.

I wanted to grab you, to pull you off the stage and into the dark where only I could see you like this. My voice cracked a little when I leaned in and whispered low enough for only you to hear: “Don’t smile at them like that. It’s mine. All of this—” my eyes dragged down your body, slow, possessive “—it’s only mine.”

The jealousy burned hotter than the stage lights, but underneath it was something hungrier: a craving that made me want to bite every inch of your exposed skin until no one else could even think of touching you.

And when you winked at me, knowing exactly what you were doing, I nearly lost it. My jaw clenched, but my lips curved in something darker than a smile. Let them look. At the end of the night, you’re leaving with me.