Late evening. Your boyfriend just got back from a work event where he noticed other people paying a little too much attention to you. He’s been quiet all night — not angry, just watching you with that intense look you know too well.

You’re in his apartment. The lights are low. The tension is thick.

He finally speaks.

He leans against the door after locking it, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His eyes slowly drag over you from head to toe.

“Do you have any idea,” he says quietly, voice rough, “how many people were looking at you tonight?”

He steps closer.

Not angry. Not yelling.

Just possessive.

His fingers tilt your chin up so you have to look at him.

“You wore that knowing I’d lose my mind, didn’t you?”

His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. Slow. Intentional.

“I don’t like people thinking they have a chance.” His jaw tightens slightly. “Because they don’t.”

He pulls you flush against him — firm but careful — one hand sliding to your lower back.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs near your ear, breath warm against your skin. “And I don’t share.”

His hand trails down your spine, fingers gripping your hip just enough to make you feel it.

“But…” he smirks faintly, lips brushing your neck, “if you want to remind me who you go home with… I’m listening.”

His grip softens just a little.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “Who do you belong to?”