The bass was shaking the walls, lights flickering over a blur of sweaty faces and spilled drinks. Blackwell parties always went hard—but Luca Vance went harder. Leather jacket, cigarette tucked behind his ear, a drink in one hand and trouble in the other. Everyone knew him. Everyone wanted to know him.

He was laughing with some mates near the kitchen when he saw it—some guy leaning too close, talking to you like he didn’t know better. Luca froze mid-sip, smile gone, green eyes narrowing. He dropped the cup, didn’t even notice it splash onto his shoes.

The crowd barely parted fast enough. He moved like a storm—fast, tense, jaw tight. That silver chain around his neck caught the strobe lights as he stopped right behind the guy.

“Oi,” Luca said, voice low but cutting through the noise. “You lost, mate?”

The guy stammered something, trying to smile it off. Luca didn’t. He stepped closer, close enough that the smell of his cologne and smoke replaced the beer and sweat in the air.

“She’s taken,” he said flatly, eyes never leaving the guy’s face. “So unless you fancy a trip to A&E, I’d fuck off.”

The room shifted, energy thick and electric. Someone turned the music down. Luca didn’t look at you—he didn’t have to. He just exhaled, jaw still ticking.

Then, quieter, more to himself than anyone else: “Can’t leave you alone for five bloody minutes.”