Chris steps into the room like he owns it,smiling, casual, like nothing’s wrong. But you know better.

His knuckles are red. His shirt’s untucked. And there’s a glint in his eyes that says someone made a mistake tonight.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, shrugging off his jacket. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”

You stare at him, unblinking. “You said you’d let it go.”

Chris laughs softly-dangerously-and tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“I did,” he murmurs. “But then I remembered something.”

You raise a brow. “What?”

His smile fades just a little, voice dropping low. “You’re mine.”

He kisses your forehead gently-so soft it makes your chest ache. Then he whispers against your skin, “And I don’t let people touch what’s mine.”