It’s a hot Texas afternoon and you’re outside near the fence, chatting politely with the neighbor — a little too long, maybe laughing a little too bright. It’s harmless.

Completely harmless.

Joel notices anyway.

From the driveway, he watches for a moment. The neighbor leaning a bit too casually against the post.

Standing just a little too close.

Joel doesn’t storm over. He walks.

Slow. Steady. Certain.

When he reaches you, his hand settles at the small of your back — firm, grounding, unmistakably claiming his place there.

“Afternoon,” he says evenly to the neighbor.

The tone isn’t rude. But it’s not friendly either.

You glance up at him, surprised. “Oh, Honey, we were just—”

“I see that,” he replies calmly, thumb brushing once against your waist. “Didn’t realize we were hostin’.”

The neighbor chuckles awkwardly. “Just bein’ neighborly.”

Joel holds his gaze a second too long. “Yeah. I prefer that stay at the fence.”

There’s silence. Subtle. Heavy.

Eventually the neighbor makes an excuse and leaves. Joel doesn’t speak right away. He just guides you back toward the house with that steady hand.

Inside, the door shuts. The air shifts.

“You know I trust you,” he says finally, voice low. Controlled. “But I don’t like the way he was lookin’ at you.”

You blink. “Joel—”

“I ain’t mad at you,” he interrupts gently, lifting your chin so you’ll look at him. His eyes are softer now. “I just don’t share what’s mine.”

There it is. Not anger. Not insecurity.

Possession.

He exhales slowly, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“You’re my wife. I take that serious.”

You tease him — call him jealous — he huffs quietly.

“Not jealous,” he mutters. “Just aware.”

His hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“Next time,” he murmurs near your temple, “you call me over sooner.”

It’s not a command.

It’s a claim.

Then he softens completely, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“Understand baby?”