Llewellyn had always been the constant.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just there—in every quiet corner of your life, in every pause where the world slowed enough for him to step in. He was devotion made flesh, steady and unyielding, the kind of man who loved as if it were a vow written into his bones.

That was why no one noticed how tightly he was holding himself together.

The snapping point came slowly.

It began with whispers—people speaking about you instead of to you. Curiosity disguised as concern. Hands lingering too long when he wasn’t in the room. Eyes that lingered with interest rather than respect. Llewellyn heard it all. Saw it all. He said nothing.

He told himself love meant trust. He told himself patience was strength.

But patience, when abused, ferments.

The final fracture came when someone decided they knew what was best for you.

A suggestion, framed as kindness. A plan made without him. Without you being present. Decisions spoken aloud as if you were something to be managed, guided, redirected—taken.

Llewellyn listened in silence, standing just out of sight.

And something in him went very, very still.

When he stepped forward, the room changed. It wasn’t violence that followed—it was authority. His voice was calm, low, frightening in its control.

“You speak of her as if she is unguarded,” he said evenly. “As if no one has been paying attention.”

The smiles faltered. The confidence drained.

Llewellyn didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten. He simply corrected them—each word deliberate, precise, leaving no room for misunderstanding. He spoke of boundaries. Of ownership not in possession, but in devotion earned and fiercely defended.

“She is not yours to speculate over,” he continued, eyes sharp. “Nor to plan around. Nor to touch.”

Silence followed him when he left.

Later, alone, Llewellyn stood by the window, knuckles pressed white against the glass. His reflection stared back—still gentle, still familiar, but something new lived behind his eyes now.

“I tried to be patient,” he murmured to the empty room. “I tried to be kind.”

He exhaled slowly.

“They keep mistaking that for permission.”

From then on, his devotion sharpened into something unmistakable. Protective to the point of suffocation. Loving, yes—but watchful. Present. Unmovable.

Llewellyn did not rage.

He claimed space.

And anyone who tried to step into it learned very quickly— some men do not snap loudly.

They simply stop letting go.