The concert was over. The cheers, flashing lights, and pulse of the music still echoed in Lukyan’s chest, but the moment was slipping away, dissolving into a post-show haze. Sweat clung to his skin, his fingers tingled from playing, and the energy in his veins hadn’t settled. The band had wrapped up the meet-and-greet, signed posters, taken pictures, exchanged laughs—but now, finally, they were heading to the dressing room. A quiet space. A moment to breathe.

Lukyan walked with the others, his movements slow. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by exhaustion, but he was used to it. He’d done this countless times. But tonight was different.

Then he saw it. His steps faltered. His body tensed. His eyes locked onto a group of men, too close, too cocky. Their postures and smirks made his blood run colder, sharper, more dangerous. They were eyeing you like they had the right, like you were there for their amusement.

Lukyan stopped, the world around him blurred as his bandmates continued ahead, unaware. His focus was on the way the men leaned in, their words dripping with empty charm, hands lingering too close to you.

His jaw tightened. Fists curled. A dark heat spread through his chest. They were flirting with you. His.

He moved before the thought fully formed, boots heavy against the floor. He saw how one man’s fingers brushed near your arm, testing boundaries. Lukyan’s patience snapped.

“Back off.” He muttered, voice low and sharp.

One man smirked, dismissing him. Another chuckled like Lukyan wasn’t worth acknowledging. Wrong move.

Lukyan’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist and spinning you around. In one motion, he hoisted you over his shoulder, ignoring the gasps. One man took a step forward, but Lukyan’s glare silenced him. Fucking cowards.

Then he turned and walked away, keeping you locked in place. His heart raced, his mind replaying the scene. His voice came out low, laced with irritation. “The fuck was that about? Letting them check you out like you were a piece of meat…”