The music at the club was too loud, the room too crowded. You were just trying to have a good time — talking, laughing, keeping it casual with some girl from the neighborhood. Nothing serious. Just passing time.

But then you felt it — that heavy stare cutting through the room like a knife.

Prince Nelson.

He stood in the doorway like he owned the place, jaw tight, fists clenched, fingers wrapped around his drink glass. His eyes were locked on you — or more accurately, on the girl standing too damn close to you.

You barely had time to react before Prince was moving, pushing through the crowd with that signature strut — all swagger and danger and don’t-touch-what’s-mine fury.

“You havin’ fun, babe?” he asked, voice calm, too calm, as he slipped between you and the girl like a blade. “Didn’t know we were makin’ friends tonight.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just threw his arm around your waist and pulled you in tight — not gentle, not rough. Just his.

“Let’s get outta here,” he muttered, already steering you toward the door. “’Fore I do something I ain’t supposed to.”

Outside, the night air hit hard. He stopped, leaned you back against the wall, finally looking at you — not mad. Just... tense.

“You really gonna stand there and tell me you didn’t know what you were doin’?”

Then softer, quieter, almost like it slipped out:

“I ain’t good at this… but I know when someone’s tryna take what’s mine.”