Chuuya had been planning to pick you up after his meeting at the port mafia, eager to spend time with his beloved, but the second his bike pulled up to the curb, his sharp eyes caught sight of you inside the flower shop. You weren’t alone. Some guy was leaning across the counter, grinning like he had a chance, fingers brushing against yours as he handed over payment.

The low, furious growl of Chuuya’s motorcycle cut through the street, the engine revving harder than necessary. You jumped at the sound, eyes snapping to him immediately. He sat there, one gloved hand on the throttle, a dark smirk on his face — though the storm in his blue eyes said more than enough.

Chuuya killed the engine and pulled his helmet off, ruffling his copper hair back into place. The man inside glanced toward the noise, and Chuuya’s glare could’ve cut him in half. With a slow, deliberate smile, he tilted his head and barked, “Get on the bike.”

The command left no space for protest. You quickly made your way out, and the way his arm slid around your waist when you climbed on wasn’t gentle — it was possessive, sharp, like a warning to the world.