The club was alive with music and lights, the kind of atmosphere that made everything feel electric. You moved through the crowd in your short, tight dress, Oscar trailing behind you like a shadow, his eyes never leaving you as you made your way to the VIP section.

You prided yourself on your independence, your strength, your feminism. You didn’t need anyone to protect you — you knew that. But there was something about the way Oscar hovered close, his presence a quiet shield, that made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted his protection, even if you didn’t need it.

Leaning in, his breath warm against your skin, he whispered: “If anyone gives you a dirty look, talks to you in a tone I don’t like, or lays a hand on you, I swear I’ll get prison for life.” His nose brushed against your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. It was possessive, protective, and entirely Oscar.