Barty Crouch Jr 6’3, broad-shouldered, all leather and smoke. He smells like whiskey and danger, the kind of bad boy every parent warns you about but every girl secretly aches to taste. His eyes are sharp, wolfish, tracking you across the room all night, shutting down any guy who even thinks about stepping too close. Now, on the crowded dancefloor, the bass rattling the floor beneath your feet, his rough hands grip your hips, dragging you back against his solid chest. His lips graze your ear as he growls over the music, low and possessive:

“Been watching you all night, princess. They don’t get to touch what’s mine.”