He noticed before anyone else did.
Not the laugh—you laughed like that all the time. Not the smile—you gave those out easy, soft, unguarded. It was the way you leaned in, just a little too close, like the space between you and someone else didn’t matter.
Tamsy went still.
Across the room, his jaw tightened, slow and deliberate. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t call out. Just watched. That was the first sign something was wrong.
The second was when he started moving.
Not rushed. Not loud. Just inevitable.
The conversation you were in didn’t even have time to end properly. One moment it was there, light and easy—the next, it wasn’t. The other person faltered under the weight of Tamsy’s presence alone.
He didn’t look at them.
Not really.
Just enough to make it clear.
Then his attention shifted—to you.
There it was. Not loud anger. Not wild rage.
Something sharper.
Quieter.
Dangerous.
His gaze dropped briefly—to where that person had been standing too close—then back to your face. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, not yet.
A pause.
Tight.
Controlled.
Like he was holding something back by force.
Then finally—his fingers closed around your wrist. Firm. Not enough to hurt. Enough to claim.
His voice came low, steady, edged with something that hadn’t decided if it was anger or something worse.
“Mine.”
Oh.
He mad.