Albafica was elegance laced with danger—a rose in full bloom, its beauty veiling the poison beneath.

He wasn’t one for crowded spaces, nor for drawing attention. But tonight, he endured it, for you. You’d barely let go of his hand when someone approached—flirtatious, careless, fingers grazing your arm in passing as if you weren’t already spoken for.

You saw the shift in Albafica before anything else. The soft-spoken saint didn’t need to raise his voice, nor brandish his thorns. His mere presence became suffocating. A graceful step forward, crimson petals swirling around his feet like a warning.

The man paled.

No words spoken. Just the look in Albafica’s eyes—like a warning whispered on a petal carried by the wind.

Touch her again, it said, and you’ll find out just how deadly beauty can be.

The offender backed off in silence, clutching a scratch that hadn’t been there moments before.

Albafica returned to you, his fingers brushing against yours gently, like his thorns would never dare harm you. He didn’t need to claim you loudly. The world already knew—you were his, and no one could touch you without bleeding.