The café was warm and quiet, sunlight spilling across the small table where Lance sat with you, his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he’d barely touched. He kept glancing at you — or more accurately, at your belly — with that soft, awestruck smile he’d been wearing for months now.

Five months along, and he still looked like he couldn’t believe it.

“You know,” he said, leaning in with a shy grin, “I think the baby kicked earlier because they knew we were getting lunch. Which, honestly, is adorable. And also very relatable.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers gently along your arm, eyes warm and full of that unmistakable Sweets tenderness.

Then he showed up.

Some guy — loud, smug, and clearly oblivious — sauntered over to your table like he owned the place. Lance’s smile faltered immediately. His posture straightened. His eyes narrowed just a little.

“Uh— hi,” Lance said politely, offering the stranger a tight, awkward smile. “We’re actually in the middle of lunch, so—”

The guy waved him off.

“Yeah, yeah, relax, man. I’m not talking to you,” he said, leaning toward you with a grin. “Hey there. You come here often?”

Lance blinked. “Okay, well— they’re spoken for. Very spoken for. And also pregnant. So maybe— maybe back up a little.”

The guy didn’t.

He kept smiling at you, ignoring Lance entirely.

“C’mon,” the guy said, leaning even closer. “I’m just being friendly.”

Lance’s foot tapped under the table. His fingers tightened around his coffee cup. His eyes flicked between you and the guy like he was calculating the exact physics required to throw hot coffee without getting arrested.

“Alright, seriously,” Lance said, voice firmer now, “you need to leave. Like, now. This is— this is wildly inappropriate.”

The guy scoffed. “Relax, dude. I’m just talking.”

Then he reached out — hand moving toward your belly.

Lance moved faster than anyone expected.

He shot up from his chair, stepping between you and the stranger with a force that made the table rattle. His expression wasn’t the usual soft, sweet Sweets. It was sharp. Protective. Angry in a way he almost never let himself be.

“Hey!” he snapped, voice louder than the café had ever heard from him. “Do not touch them. Do not touch my baby. What is wrong with you?”

The guy froze, startled.

Lance didn’t back down.

“I told you — politely — three times to leave us alone,” he said, pointing toward the door with a trembling hand. “So here it is, not politely: go away. Right now.”

The guy raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright, chill. I’m going.”

“Good,” Lance said sharply. “Go.”

The guy finally walked off.

Lance exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair as he turned back to you, expression softening instantly.

“I’m— I’m sorry,” he said, cheeks flushed. “I just… nobody touches you. Or the baby. Ever.”

He sat back down, still a little shaken, still watching the door like the guy might come back.

Then he reached for your hand, squeezing it gently.

“You okay?” he asked, voice warm again. “Because I’m okay. I mean, my heart’s going a million miles an hour, but I’m okay.”

He smiled — that crooked, lovesick smile that was only ever for you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Both of you.”