The music is too loud, the laughter even louder, and the air smells like smoke, grilled meat, and something sweet you can’t quite place. It’s overwhelming in a way you’re not used to—people talking over each other, moving like they’ve known each other forever.

And then there’s you.

Standing a little too close to the grill, hands clasped together, trying to look like you belong here.

Like you’re not completely out of place.

He notices immediately.

Of course he does.

From across the yard, leaning back in his chair like he owns the entire block, his eyes find you without effort. Dark, steady, unreadable at first—but then narrowing slightly when he sees how stiff you look, how you barely speak when someone tries to include you.

He clicks his tongue under his breath, already annoyed.

Not at you.

At them. At the way they’re looking at you like they don’t get it. Like they don’t understand that you’re his.

He stands up without a word, cutting through the noise, through the crowd, until he’s right behind you. Close enough for you to feel him before you even see him.

“Why you standin’ here like that?” he mutters low in your ear, voice rough, almost scolding—but his hand settles on your waist, firm, grounding.

“C’mere,” he adds, pulling you just a little closer to him, like that alone should fix everything.

And somehow, it does.