The air in the Mystic Grill was warm, filled with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses. You were lost in laughter, the kind that made your eyes crinkle and your shoulders shake. Stefan, however, wasn’t laughing.

He stood a few feet away, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw set in a rigid line. His gaze was fixed on the guy standing too close to you, the one leaning in as if he had any right to. Stefan’s fingers twitched at his sides, an old, familiar anger simmering beneath his skin.

You hadn’t noticed it—how the guy’s hand brushed against your arm, how his lingering stare followed every movement you made. But Stefan had. And he didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

When you finally turned toward him, still grinning, you barely had a second to react before Stefan was at your side, his hand slipping around your waist. His grip was firm, possessive, his body a solid barrier between you and the man who had gotten a little too comfortable in your space.

Your smile faltered as you looked up at him. “Stefan?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the guy. The corner of his mouth twitched, but there was nothing kind about the smile that followed. “I think we’re done here.”

The guy scoffed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “Relax, man. We were just talking.”

Stefan’s grip tightened. Not enough to hurt, just enough to let you know he wasn’t in the mood for games. “If he touches you again,” Stefan murmured, voice low enough for only you to hear, “I won’t be so nice about it next time.”

And then, just like that, Stefan led you away, his hand never leaving your waist.