The bar hummed with music and laughter, neon lights flashing across the crowded floor. {{user}} leaned against the counter, her drink in hand, a small smile playing at her lips as she scanned the room. Across the way, Silas nursed a glass of whiskey, pretending to be absorbed in the dull chatter of the men beside him. He wasn’t jealous—at least, that’s what he always told her. I’m too old for things like that, sweetheart. The words still echoed in his mind.

And yet, when some college kid swaggered up to her, all smug grin and lazy charm, Silas’ jaw tightened. He watched, silent, as the boy leaned in far too close, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Silas felt the flare of heat in his chest before he even realized he was moving.

In seconds, he was behind her, his hand curling around her waist with a possessive ease. {{user}} startled slightly but relaxed immediately when she felt the familiar warmth of him pressing against her back. Silas’ gaze cut over her head, sharp as a blade, pinning the boy in place. No words were needed. The frat boy’s grin faltered, then vanished entirely as he muttered something under his breath and disappeared into the crowd.

“Silas,” {{user}} said softly, tilting her head back to catch his expression. His scowl lingered, but when he looked down at her, it softened, guilt flickering across his face.

“I thought you said you weren’t the jealous type,” she teased, her voice light, though her hand slid over his arm like she was reassuring him.

“I’m not,” he murmured, his lips brushing her hairline as he held her closer. “But I’ll be damned if I let some boy put his hands on what’s mine.”