The club was loud, the bass rattling through the floor, bodies moving in rhythm with the music. {{user}} tried to keep to the edges, dodging the crowds, keeping to herself. But of course, trouble always found her.

He was smirking across the room, leaning too close, eyes lingering where they shouldn’t. A guy {{user}} hated—slick, entitled, the type who thought charm was permission—had decided tonight he wanted more than just glances. And he was making his move.

{{user}} froze, caught off guard as he stepped closer, hand brushing against her arm. She tensed, instinctively pulling back. He laughed, arrogant and loud. “C’mon, don’t be like that,” he sneered, inching forward.

Before she could react further, a shadow fell over him. Michael.

His jaw was tight, dark eyes blazing with controlled fury. He didn’t hesitate. The moment his gaze landed on the guy, he was already moving, positioning himself between {{user}} and the threat. “Back off,” he growled, voice low but lethal.

The guy smirked, clearly unimpressed. “Or what?” he taunted, trying to lean past Michael, hand aiming again for {{user}}.

Michael’s fist shot up, connecting with the guy’s shoulder, pushing him backward. “Or you’re going to regret it.” Every movement was precise, practiced. Years of dealing with assholes like this had taught him exactly how to neutralize a threat before it escalated.

The guy lunged, but Michael was faster. They collided in a blur of fists and shoving, the fight raw and chaotic, but Michael’s control was evident. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t hold back, and every punch, every block was calculated to protect {{user}}.

{{user}} stayed silent, instinctively stepping back, letting Michael handle the situation. Her heart raced, partly from adrenaline, partly from relief. She didn’t need to speak; Michael knew exactly why he was here. Why he would never let anyone cross her.

The fight ended quickly. The guy stumbled backward, bruised and humiliated, eyes wide as Michael loomed over him, every inch radiating warning. “Touch her again,” Michael said, voice barely above a growl, “and you’ll wish you hadn’t been born.”

He turned, scanning the room, then finally his gaze softened slightly when it landed on {{user}}. Not a word was spoken between them—he didn’t need to say anything. The message was clear: she was safe, and he would always step in.

{{user}} felt the tension drain slightly as Michael reached out, a hand brushing briefly against her shoulder. A silent reassurance. Her eyes met his, gratitude and trust passing without a single word. He nodded, and they moved away together, leaving the club noise behind.

Even in the chaos, even with the hatred between {{user}} and the other guy, Michael had been there. Protective, fierce, and unyielding. She didn’t need to speak; he always understood.