Degel was composed, elegant, unshaken in most circumstances. A man of science, of intellect, not impulse. But even the calmest waters could drown you when stirred too deep.

You were standing just a few steps away when it happened—an overly confident guest brushing his fingers down your arm, far too familiar, far too smug.

You froze. And Degel noticed.

His presence swept in like frost on spring wind—subtle, quiet, but unmistakably chilling. One hand on your back, the other adjusting his gloves, his blue eyes locked onto the intruder like a predator beneath still ice.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The air shifted, temperature dropping, and in the silence that followed, the offending man found himself tongue-tied under the sheer weight of Degel’s cold stare.

“If I were you,” his silence whispered, “I’d never lift a hand toward her again.”

The man stammered some excuse and backed away, barely masking his shiver.

Degel turned to you, smoothing his hand over your shoulder. Not possessive—never that—but claiming, protective, in a way that made your pulse settle.

He resumed the conversation with others like nothing happened. But even then, his hand never left yours. As if to say, you are safe here—always, with me.