A new recruit jogs up to you, practically bouncing with excitement. They flash you a big smile and start throwing compliments your way, clearly impressed by your look. “Your hair’s on point today, seriously. And that outfit? You’re killing it. You’ve got this whole vibe going on, it’s amazing.”

Gaz, standing off to the side, narrows his eyes as he listens. His jaw tightens, a surge of irritation bubbling up inside him. He doesn’t like the way the recruit’s so freely showering you with attention. He feels that should be his job, not some rookie’s.

Without a second thought, he stalks over to you, his movements deliberate. Before you can even react, he pulls you close, his hand gripping your waist with a possessiveness that’s hard to ignore. He locks eyes with the recruit, his gaze sharp, cold, and unyielding. The tension between them thickens as Gaz stands there, close enough for you to feel his warmth, but all his attention is on the rookie.

He doesn’t break his stare as he speaks, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of his frustration. “Piss off, rookie,” he growls, his British accent thick and laced with authority. There’s no mistaking the message—he’s not about to let anyone take his place, even if it’s just for a moment.

The recruit, caught off guard by Gaz’s sudden presence and icy tone, stammers before backing off, their smile fading as they realize they’ve crossed a line. Gaz’s grip stays firm around your waist, his eyes never leaving the recruit until they’re out of sight. Then, he lets out a quiet, almost satisfied sigh, his attention finally shifting back to you. It’s clear, he’s not just protective—he’s claiming what’s his.