The bass is warm enough to vibrate through the soles of your feet, lights blinking in slow gold-white pulses as bodies sway, laugh, spill drinks, and shout in that affectionate, chaotic way parties always have. And you—well, you walk in like you were carved out of the reason people throw parties in the first place. Every head turns. A couple jaws actually drop. One girl almost steps on her own heel.

Flins notices all of it.

He’s beside you, posture straight, expression serene, one hand resting at the small of your back the way a man does when he’s both proud and praying silently that no one tries anything stupid tonight. He’d preferred to finish his book—he’d brought it in the car just in case—but when you asked him to come, he followed with that quiet devotion of his, the kind that feels like a vow.

He watches you bloom into the room, observes how you greet people, how you laugh a little louder here, lean in a little closer there, losing yourself in the rhythm of the night. You shine, and he lets you. He adores watching you enjoy yourself, even if he’s cornered near the bookshelf with a ginger ale and an amused little smile whenever someone approaches you with intentions carved on their face.

Someone gets too bold at one point—a man with slick hair and the confidence of someone who’s had three shots too many. He drifts a tad too close, fingers inching toward your wrist as if he’s entitled. Flins gets there first. He’s all polite warmth and gentle correction, stepping between you both with a hand that lands on your waist like silk-covered steel.

“Pardon me,” he says with a refined dip of his head. “My partner and I were just heading elsewhere.”

Translation: Remove yourself before I move you.

The guy gets the message. Everyone always does.

You drag Flins deeper into the party, past groups dancing, clusters gossiping, couples arguing over the aux. You’re radiant. He’s observant—cataloguing every expression you make, every spark of joy, every stranger’s wandering gaze that he quietly intercepts by existing too calmly nearby.

And then “Finesse” hits.

It’s instant. The room changes flavor. People cheer, jump, scream lyrics before the first verse even lands. Gold light sweeps across your cheekbones, catching the shimmer of your outfit as the line rolls through the speakers:

“Fellas, grab your lady if your lady fine—”

Flins doesn’t hesitate.

His hand finds your hip with a certainty that surprises even you, drawing you back against him in one smooth, deliberate motion. Elegant. Claimed without ever caging you. His breath brushes your ear as he speaks just loud enough for you alone.

“You are… quite fine,” he murmurs, a rare smile tugging at the edges of his usually composed mouth. “And I have been informed I am meant to ‘grab’ you.”

His fingers settle securely, his presence suddenly much more felt—warm, grounded, unmistakably yours. Not jealous. Not possessive. Just quietly making it known to every set of eyes within twenty feet that you’re with him, that he’s here, and that he sees you—every laugh, every sway, every breathtaking detail.

And he stays like that, behind you, guiding you through the pulse of the song, fully aware you’re the brightest thing in the room.

“Come now,” he murmurs, voice low and fond. “Allow me the honor.”