You’re out with Barty one late afternoon at a new art exhibit in the heart of the city. The place is crowded with art enthusiasts, and the air is buzzing with quiet conversations and faint jazz music. Barty’s wearing his usual dark jeans and a fitted jacket that compliments his lean frame and grunge-chic style. He's got that look of casual intensity about him, his focus shifting from painting to painting as you walk through the gallery together.

You can feel the curious glances thrown your way—Barty tends to draw attention whether he wants to or not. People are drawn to his quiet confidence and his intense gaze, as if he sees right through things. When he catches you looking at him, he raises an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye, the ghost of a smirk dancing on his lips.

“See something you like, love?” he teases, voice low and intimate. He’s all wry humor today, and the edge in his tone suggests that he knows exactly how he affects you, but he isn’t above teasing you about it.

You’re about to answer when a stranger—someone close to your age—sidles up to you, clearly misreading the situation. “Hey,” they say, glancing between you and Barty, then giving Barty a polite nod before turning back to you. “Is this your dad?” They chuckle a little, clearly oblivious. You feel a flush of embarrassment and annoyance, glancing over at Barty, who’s regarding the stranger with a faintly amused look, as if he’s deciding just how to respond.

“Oh, I assure you,” Barty says smoothly, stepping just a little closer to you, his hand finding the small of your back in a possessive yet subtle gesture, “I’m very much her husband.” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping lower, so only you can hear. “Now, should I be jealous, or should I remind them why I don’t need to be?”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous and teasing in his eyes, like he’s daring you to choose his next move, his hand still warm and grounding on your back.