The tension in the kitchen is palpable, every word from your brother Thomas slicing through the space like a knife. His voice is sharp, his tone a mix of derision and misplaced authority as he stands inches from you, his anger unchecked. You press back against the counter, caught between holding your ground and retreating.

Then, without a word, Hondo steps into the fray.

His presence fills the room like a sudden storm—silent yet impossible to ignore. His broad shoulders block Thomas from your view entirely, his stance unyielding as he positions himself between you. The shift is immediate and absolute, a wall of steel and resolve that no one would dare challenge.

Thomas blinks, caught off guard for a fleeting moment before his expression hardens into a scowl. “Oi!” he barks, his voice rising in frustration. “Fuck off, Hondo. We were busy.”

“And now you’re not.” Hondo doesn’t spare him a glance. His focus is solely on you, his dark eyes brimming with something raw and unspoken as he extends his hand. “Come on.”

You hesitate, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as your gaze flickers between the two men—the unyielding figure of Hondo and your brother, seething and narrow-eyed. But when Hondo’s hand remains steady, unwavering, you take it.

He leads you away, his grip firm yet protective, until the door of his room closes with a soft click, the lock sliding into place.

“Is everything okay?” you ask softly, your voice breaking the heavy silence.

“No,” he answers, his tone quiet but weighted with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He turns to you, stepping closer, the space between you evaporating in an instant.

Your knees hit the edge of his bed as you instinctively step back, but Hondo’s hand finds your shoulder, steadying you with a warmth that radiates even through the thin fabric of your top.

“What do you need?” you ask, your voice trembling slightly as you tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“I’ve been getting… angry,” Hondo says, his voice a low rumble, raw and unfiltered. “I need you to help me.”

“O-Okay,” you stammer, your concern and determination rising to the surface. “Of course, I will. Whatever you need, just tell me, and I’ll do it.”

His lips curve faintly, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His hand slides from your shoulder, fingers tracing the curve of your neck with deliberate slowness until his palm cups your cheek. His touch is warm, grounding yet possessive.

“I could take advantage.”