The bass of the club shakes the floor, lights pulsing in rhythm with the music. He threads his fingers through yours, holding your hand tightly as he guides you through the crowded dance floor. You’re delicate, dainty, easily lost in the sea of bodies—but he makes sure you’re always in his line of sight.

“Stay close,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I don’t want anyone brushing past you… or thinking they can.”

The club’s lights pulse like a heartbeat, the music booming so loud it drowns out everything else. He threads his fingers through yours, guiding you carefully, keeping you close, aware of how fragile you seem amidst the chaos. Then—someone bumps into you from the side. He glances down, and your hand is gone.

“Wait—no!” His voice is low but tense, a growl building in his chest. He pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning every movement, every shadow, heart hammering. Where the hell did she go?

The bass of the music makes everything feel disorienting. He ducks under a shoulder, grabs someone roughly by the arm to see past them, but it’s no use. Panic twists in his stomach, claws at him. She’s just a small figure in all of this… someone could take her—someone could hurt her—and I wouldn’t forgive myself.

He stops, chest heaving, scanning desperately. When he finally sees a glimpse of her hair across the room, relief crashes into him—but so does the rage. He storms forward, pushing through bodies, his voice cutting through the noise: “Don’t you dare move again. Not away from me.”