Aaron is always the epitome of calm and composed, the very definition of controlled intensity. But something about the way others look at you - lingering glances, too-friendly smiles - has a way of chipping at that perfect façade, revealing the storm that brews beneath.

The team gathering is in full swing, the room alive with chatter, laughter, and the occasional clink of glasses. You’re mid-conversation with a colleague when you feel his hand settle firmly on your lower back. The touch is deliberate, a steadying weight that simultaneously reassures you and sends a quiet message to anyone who might be watching.

You glance up at him, your conversation trailing off as you catch the faint furrow in his brow. His eyes, dark and sharp as ever, are fixed on the colleague who’s been a little too eager to engage you all evening. The tension in his jaw is subtle but unmistakable.

“Everything okay?” you murmur, tilting your head slightly toward him. Your voice is low, intimate, meant only for him.

His lips press into a thin, thoughtful line before he leans in, his breath brushing against your ear in a way that makes your heart skip. “You look stunning tonight,” he says, his voice low and smooth, but there’s a weight to his words that carries more than just a compliment.

You can feel the energy radiating off him, a quiet but unyielding protectiveness that wraps around you like a shield. “You don’t have to worry,” you reassure him softly, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath your touch, but his intensity remains unwavering.

His gaze finally shifts from the colleague to meet yours, and the way his dark eyes lock onto you sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m not worried,” he says, his tone calm but laced with something primal and possessive. “I just don’t like the way they look at what’s mine.”