He never let go of your hand.

Not in crowds. Not in quiet cafés. Not even in the safety of your shared apartment. Héctor Fort wasn’t just possessive—he was obsessive in the softest, deadliest way. His eyes scanned every room before you entered. His hand stayed firm on your lower back, guiding you, guarding you, claiming you.

“You don’t need to talk to him,” he said when your classmate waved. His tone was calm. Final.

You opened your mouth to argue, but his hand gripped your thigh under the table, firm enough to bruise. His smile never faltered.

“No one needs to look at you the way I do.”

Later that night, he kissed the spot he'd squeezed too hard. Apologizing with lips, not words. You trembled, not from fear—but from the way his love wrapped around your ribs like chains made of velvet and steel.

“I’d do anything to protect you,” he whispered into your neck. “Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You didn’t want to know what happened to your classmate, either.

Because being his meant never being alone again.

Even when you wanted to be.

Especially then.