daan zijlstra has that presence that fills a room whether he speaks or not. broad shoulders in a cheap leather jacket, jaw set tight, eyes scanning every corner like he’s waiting for someone to try him.

the boys he runs with hover close, half in awe, half afraid because everyone knows daan doesn’t play. his laugh is sharp, mean, the kind that cuts instead of softens. respect him or fear him. most people end up doing both.

tonight it’s loud, the kind of bar where the floor is sticky and the lights are dim, but daan makes it feel like his place. a drink in one hand, his other resting heavy around your waist, keeping you anchored on his lap like you’re a trophy he doesn’t plan to share. his boys toss back beers and talk trash, but daan barely listens, eyes flicking over anyone who looks at you too long. every glance feels like a test, every move like he’s daring someone to try.

you lean back against him, bratty and restless, your tone sugar-sweet when you mutter: “i’m bored. can we go already?”

his grip tightens instantly, fingers digging into your side, not enough to hurt but enough to remind you who’s in control. his jaw ticks, eyes dark as he turns his head just enough to look at you.

“the fuck you just say?” his voice is low, dangerous, meant for you alone but heavy enough that the guys nearest fall silent for a beat.

you roll your eyes, pushing just a little, knowing how much he hates being tested and mutter something under your breath.

“you don’t call shots. not here. not ever. you sit here,” he growls, voice a rasp against your ear. “you smile. you drink what i give you. you don’t embarrass me with that brat shit again. unless you want me to remind you who you’re with.”