They always look at her like she’s free. Like she’s available. Like she isn’t already mine.

I see it every damn time — the way their eyes linger a little too long when she walks into the café, when she bends over to tie her shoe, when she laughs without watching who’s listening. It’s not her fault. She shines without trying. But they don’t get it.

She doesn’t belong to the streets. She doesn’t belong to them.

She belongs to me.

I was leaning against the blacked-out SUV when I saw her again — crossing the street, hair up, eyes scanning the sidewalk like nothing was wrong in the world. She didn’t know about the guy who’d tried to grab her wrist at the club last weekend. Didn’t know how fast he disappeared. Or the barista who kept writing his number on her coffee cup — until he suddenly stopped showing up to work.

She thinks the world just… moves on. But it only moves because I make it.

She saw me, and her smile lit up like always. Sweet. Unaware.

I pushed off the truck and walked up, slipping a hand gently around her waist like I’d done it a thousand times before. My voice low, calm, like velvet over broken glass.

“Hey, baby,” I said, brushing my lips near her ear. “That guy from your building… still giving you those looks?”

She blinked. Surprised I knew. Of course she was.

“Don’t worry.” I smiled. “He won’t anymore.”

Then I leaned in, looked her right in the eyes — soft, but unflinching.