Gio’s boots hit the hallway carpet with the heavy rhythm of a man running on fumes, but the sight ahead burns the fatigue clean out of him. His partner stands beside the neighbor—the neatly pressed, mild-mannered type with a polite smile and a tie still perfectly straight even after work. They speak only in passing, nothing intimate, nothing wrong, but Gio’s pulse spikes all the same.

He closes the distance in a few long strides. The man startles when Gio steps between them, shoulders squared, jaw tight. “Didn’t think you were the chatty type,” he mutters, eyes narrowing on the neighbor rather than the person he came home for. “Funny how you’re always around, though. Little too close for someone who barely nods at me in the elevator.”

The neighbor sputters something polite and harmless—Gio barely hears it. His attention flicks once to you, just enough to register you’re safe, then back to the man who suddenly looks very interested in retreating.

“Next time,” Gio says, voice low, “keep walking. She doesn’t need company getting to her door.”

The man excuses himself quickly, distant footsteps fading. Only then does Gio’s posture ease, tension bleeding out in a slow exhale. He finally looks at you, guilt flickering behind the possessiveness he can’t quite hide. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he mutters, softer. “Didn’t like him near you at all.”