The music thrummed through the air, bass rattling the floor as bodies swayed under the dim glow of overhead lights. Gaz leaned against the bar, nursing a drink, jaw tight as he watched you dance with someone else. He told himself it was fine. Just a dance, nothing more… but his fingers curled around the glass a little too hard.

Then he saw it. The shift in your stance, the flicker of discomfort in your eyes as your dance partner pulled you in closer than you liked.

Gaz was moving before he even thought about it, slipping through the crowd with the kind of effortless confidence that turned heads. He reached you in seconds, smoothly cutting in with a practiced ease, his hand firm but gentle on your waist.

“No offense, mate—actually, scratch that, full offense—you dance like a fridge.”

Without waiting for an answer from your dance partner, he turned you away, seamlessly taking over the dance. He smirked down at you, voice dropping low.

“Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you. We all make mistakes. Yours just happened to be that bloke.”