The bar was too loud.

The music pulsed low through the floor, the crowd thick with sweat and perfume, and you could barely hear yourself think—let alone breathe. Zade had stepped away for drinks, no more than five minutes ago, his hand lingering on your hip before disappearing into the press of bodies. He’d told you he’d be right back. He always was.

But that didn’t stop the man who had slithered up beside you the moment Zade was gone.

He was taller than you, drunk off liquid confidence, leaning in too close with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. His hand hovered too near your waist, breath sour with beer and something sharper. You turned away politely at first, shaking your head, putting space between you. He didn’t take the hint.

“C’mon, just one dance,” the man said, voice sticky with arrogance. “You look like you need some fun.”

You kept your voice steady, your eyes scanning the crowd. “No.”

He laughed like it was a challenge.

And then he reached.

Fingers brushed your arm—light, but wrong. Entitled. Like he had a right to you just because Zade wasn’t in sight.

That’s when the air shifted.

It was subtle at first—the way the warmth around you cooled, the way the man’s smirk faltered as he looked past your shoulder. You felt it before you saw it.

Zade.

He was behind you in seconds, a drink still in one hand, the other curling around your waist with quiet, possessive strength. His body pressed protectively to your back, but his eyes were locked on the man, unreadable but lethal.

“She said no.”

Zade’s voice was calm. Too calm.

The man scoffed, raising his hands like he meant no harm, but Zade didn’t budge. His eyes stayed fixed, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly.

“I suggest you get the fuck out of my sight before I make it permanent.”

Something in his voice changed then—something dark and final. The man paled, backing away without another word, swallowed by the crowd.

Zade looked down at you after a beat, checking your expression, brushing his knuckles along your arm.

“You okay?” he asked softly, bending to meet your eyes. “Did he touch you?”

You shook your head, but your voice was thinner than you meant it to be. “Just my arm.”

Zade nodded, jaw tight. “We’re leaving.”

He got you home in silence, his hand in yours the entire way, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. Once inside, he helped you out of your shoes, got you a glass of water, sat you gently on the couch and checked your face, your breathing, your comfort.

“You’re safe,” he murmured, cupping your jaw in his palm. “You’re with me.”

You nodded, leaning into the heat of his touch. He kissed your temple once. And then he stood.

“I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask for permission.

He just left.

And you knew what that meant.

It was an hour before he returned.

You were in bed by then, the sheets still cool, the house quiet. The soft creak of the front door brought you to the edge of sleep—but it was the weight of him beside you, the familiar scent of sweat and steel and night air, that brought you back fully.

Zade didn’t say anything at first.

He just slipped under the covers, pulling you gently into him, arms folding around your waist, burying his face in your neck like he needed to feel your pulse to calm his own.

“It’s done,” he whispered. Done. You knew what that meant. The man probably wasn’t even breathing by now. But you didn’t ask questions.

Whatever rage he carried had burned itself out somewhere between the alley and the drive home.

“It won’t happen again,” he promises, “nobody gets to touch you. Nobody even gets to fucking look at you, you’re mine, little mouse.” You can feel the anger radiating off of him, but it slowly dies down again.

Because now that he’s here, in this bed, in your arms—he found peace again.

Because you were safe.

Because he’d made sure of it.