You’d never considered yourself the jealous type—until Calcharo walked into a festival crowd and suddenly became a magnet.

It wasn’t his fault. The man was tall, sharp-jawed, and built like a walking fantasy. That commanding air he carried didn’t help either. Girls giggled behind their fans, others outright stepped into his path, brushing fingers against his arms like it was their right. A few bold ones placed hands on his chest as if he were some prize to admire.

And the worst part? He didn’t even notice.

Clueless. Absolutely, infuriatingly clueless. He’d offer a nod, maybe a quiet “excuse me,” and keep walking like nothing happened. But you noticed. You noticed everything. Every touch. Every flirty giggle. Every pair of eyes that raked over your man like he wasn’t already spoken for.

He was yours, dammit.

And yet, as he walked ahead, you dragged behind in a silent storm, arms crossed, lips pursed, wondering why it even stung so much.

It wasn’t until you reached the end of the crowded plaza that Calcharo paused, turning back. His brow furrowed—subtle, but still there.

“…You’re walking weird,” he muttered, reaching a hand back to you. You hesitated, still bitter.

But when he gently tugged you closer—firm, protective—and placed your hand against his chest himself, the look in his eyes said enough.

He didn’t need to say you’re the only one I see.

The way he shielded you from the crowd, the way his thumb rubbed small circles against your hand once it was in his— That was already his answer.

And you? You finally let yourself lean into his side.

Mine.