the club lights dimmed, the bass thumping so hard it rattled your chest. patrons cheered, throwing bills and drinks, eyes glued to the stage. you were in your element — confident, radiant, performing like every spotlight belonged to you.

but franklin clinton was watching. from the shadows near the bar, he leaned against the railing, arms crossed, eyes flicking to every man who dared get too close. a subtle growl escaped him when someone brushed past your waist — a careless touch that wasn’t meant to harm, but it stung all the same.

he knew he shouldn’t feel this way. jealousy wasn’t supposed to hit him this hard. he had always been in control — smooth, confident, untouchable. but something about you — your laughter, the way you moved, the way everyone couldn’t help but notice you — made him lose that control.

as the song ended and you stepped off the stage, you spotted him immediately. his gaze locked onto yours, a mixture of amusement, warning, and unspoken desire simmering in the depths of his dark brown eyes.

“enjoying the show?” you teased, trying to read the expression on his face.

“yeah,” he said, smirking, voice low and husky. “as long as no one got too… close to you.”