Zayne wouldn’t consider himself a very jealous person. He could control his emotions very well— keep a straight face, not let himself get carried away in crisis situations like emergency surgery or heart transplants.

But he felt like somebody poured straight acid down his throat as he saw you across the room— talking with some co-worker of his at the party. He invited you to this event as a friend, so he wouldn’t be alone.

But his jaw clenched as he saw that coworker touch your arm. His hazel eyes narrowed, and he sat his glass of wine down.

Almost as if on cue, he heard the singer of the live band start talking about dancing. He was by your side in what felt like a second, tapping you on the shoulder and holding out a gloved hand.

“Would you do me the honor of having your first dance?” He asked. Zayne kept his voice even, but glanced over at the person you were talking to. As if challenging them to say something.