daan zijlstra is not the type to ask twice. he doesn’t need to. the weight of his voice, the sharpness in his eyes, the way his jaw locks when he doesn’t like something. it’s enough. he’s the kind of guy who takes up space without trying, leaning back in his chair, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, gaze cutting through the haze of the room until it lands on you.

you come down the narrow stairs of the cramped apartment, bare legs showing beneath the oversized t-shirt you threw on after a long night. it hangs loose on your frame, but not loose enough. daan knows what you’re wearing underneath, and so do his boys the second their eyes flick over. a couple whistles cut through the low thrum of music before you even reach the bottom step.

daan doesn’t laugh. doesn’t smile. his jaw ticks.

the noise in the room fades for him, the music, the chatter, the clink of bottles on the table. none of it matters. what matters is the way their eyes are on you. his stare sharpens, and in that low, clipped tone of his, he says it:

“go back upstairs. change.”

you freeze halfway into the room, tugging at the hem like maybe you can play it off, maybe tease, maybe test him.

he exhales smoke slow, deliberate, like he’s holding something back. his gaze doesn’t budge. there’s no softness, no humor. just command.

“i said change.” this time the words bite, each syllable its own warning.

you roll your eyes, mutter something under your breath, but his chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. taller, broader, that unpredictable edge rolling off him in heavy waves as he crosses the room. his boys glance at each other but stay silent. everyone knows better than to cut in when daan’s jaw is set like that.

he stops in front of you, close enough that the smoke still clings to his shirt, close enough for you to see the tension in his shoulders, the ink stretched tight across his arm. his voice drops low, meant only for you.

“you walk out like that, every pair of eyes in here’s gonna be on you. and that doesn’t fly with me. not my girl. not ever.”

his hand brushes your hip, not soft, not gentle. firm, possessive. guiding you back toward the stairs with no room for argument.

“upstairs. now.”

he doesn’t shout. he doesn’t need to. it’s not about volume. it’s about control. about the fact that when daan tells you to do something, it isn’t a suggestion. it’s a line drawn deep, one you know better than to cross.