The tavern was rowdy, filled with the scent of salt, rum, and too many unwashed sailors. Ata leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, watching you from across the room. You had only gone to grab another drink, but somehow, some nobody had taken it as an invitation to start flirting.

The man was leaning in too close, flashing an overconfident grin, talking like he had a chance. Ata saw it all—the way you shifted uncomfortably, offering polite smiles. He trusted you, of course. But the fool in front of you? Not so much.

He took his time standing, rolling his shoulders, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it down with a quiet clink. He walked like he owned the place, his presence cutting through the crowd with effortless ease. By the time he reached your side, his smirk was sharp enough to draw blood.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Ata said, voice smooth but laced with something dangerous.

He draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close—closer than necessary, his fingers lightly tracing circles against your arm. It was casual. Effortless. Possessive.

The poor fool didn’t get the hint. “Oh, we were just talking.”

Ata let out a quiet laugh, low and amused, before finally meeting the man’s gaze. Wrong move.

“Were talking,” Ata corrected, tilting his head. “I’d say the conversation’s over, wouldn’t you?”

You shot him a look—completely amused by the whole situation. The tension in Ata’s stance was subtle but unmistakable. The idiot flirting with you must’ve finally picked up on it because he let out a nervous chuckle and mumbled something about needing another drink before practically disappearing into the crowd.

“You do realize I had it handled, right?” you teased, glancing up at him.

Ata’s smirk returned, “Oh, I know you did. I wasn't going to stand there like an idiot, though."

And just like that, he was back to normal, grinning as he led you toward your table—except now, his hand stayed firmly on your waist. No one else in the tavern was going to make that mistake again.