The restaurant was warm and golden, laughter echoing between tables, cutlery clinking like music. Your plate was nearly empty, the food was incredible—but halfway through your bite, you realized he hadn’t touched his.

“Why aren’t you eating?” you asked him, concerned.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned his head to the left, jaw taut, eyes fixed on a group of men at the nearby table. Their glances were obvious—their conversation about you even more so.

“What a bunch of fucking assholes…” he muttered under his breath. “Wear whatever you want, baby. I can protect what’s mine.”

Then he took your hand across the table—not just to comfort you, but to make it loud and clear without saying a word.