The music pounds around you, glasses clinking, laughter spilling over, but all you can feel is him—standing slightly behind, eyes scanning the room with sharp, predatory focus. You feel safe in his presence, and yet a part of you tenses, knowing that same presence can turn into something dangerous.

It happens fast. A guy at the party leans in, whispering something crude, too close to you, too confident. Your stomach twists, and before you can react, he’s there. His hand shoots out, grabbing the man’s collar, dragging him back as if he weighs nothing. The guy laughs nervously, thinking it’s a joke, but the smirk fades instantly when his eyes meet your boyfriend’s—dark, sharp, and impossibly cold.

“You touch her again,” he says, voice low but lethal, each word measured like a blade. The room seems to freeze around him. The man laughs again, but it’s weak, forced. One second, and his body hits the floor with a sharp thud. You instinctively step back, heart racing, hands trembling—not from fear of him, not really, but from the sheer intensity radiating off him.