You’re standing in the middle of the crowd, talking casually with a friend, when you feel his presence behind you. His arm slides around your waist, but it’s tight, almost uncomfortably so, as he pulls you closer to him. You glance up, meeting his eyes, but the look he gives you is anything but casual—there’s something possessive in the way his grip tightens, the subtle warning in his gaze.

As someone walks by, a little too close to you for his liking, his arm tenses even more. You feel his muscles flex as he pulls you even closer, his chest pressing against your back. His voice is low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it, “You don’t need to talk to them.” His breath is hot against your ear, and though he’s not saying much, the message is clear—you're his, and no one else can have you. The crowd around you seems to fade as he keeps you locked in place, his possessiveness wrapping around you like a vice.