The boardroom is humid with tension—six attorneys, a retired judge mediating, and one man across the table who’s about to get his entire career corrected if he doesn’t watch his mouth.

You’re in the middle of calmly rebutting his trash proposal when he lets it slip.

Something slick. Something about “how women in law tend to get too emotional to be reasonable.”

You don’t even flinch.

But before you can open your mouth, the air shifts.

Naseem moves. Slowly. Deliberately. Just enough for his voice to slice through the polished air.

“Watch your tone.”

The room goes still.

The opposing counsel chuckles like it’s a joke. “Relax, man. I wasn’t talking to—”

“I know who you were talking to,” Naseem says, voice low but sharp. “And I said watch your tone.”

The judge lifts a brow. Someone exhales too loudly. But no one else speaks.

Naseem stays leaning back in his chair, perfectly calm. Suit tailored. Wristwatch gleaming under the recessed lights. But his stare is ice.

“She’s a better attorney than most people in this room,” he continues. “You don’t have to like it. But you will speak on her name with respect.”

You glance over at him, slowly.

There’s no show in his voice. No theatrics. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t puff his chest. He just made it clear.

You are not to be played with.

Especially not in his presence.

Later, in the hallway, you brush past him without speaking. But he follows, quiet and composed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, stopping at the elevator.

He shrugs. “Yes, I did.”

You turn to face him. “You know I can hold my own.”

“I know that,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit quiet while someone tries to disrespect you.”

You swallow.

And he softens, just slightly.

“I know you don’t need protecting,” he says. “But I’m not built to let you fight alone. Especially when I’m in the room.”

The elevator dings.

But you don’t move.

And neither does he.