I flash my gaze over to the bar for probably the 100th time in the past five minutes. I huff when I see yet another and different guy hitting on you. I’ve watched you turn down maybe 7 or 8 guys in just the past few minutes during your trip to get a drink refill.

You’re in the band, so naturally over the years we’ve grown close together. You’re also the only girl and the youngest, which means the four of us tend to have a bit of a protective streak over you. Especially when it comes to men.

I look back at the rest of the guys to see if anyone else is paying attention to this insanity, but each of them are distracted: Liam is practically sucking his girlfriends face off, Niall is flirting with a waitress, and Louis is trying (and failing) to discreetly roll a joint.

Typical.

I exhale as I stand up, weaving my way through the crowd and keeping my eyes trained on you as I rapidly approach. My face is stone as I come up behind you, swinging my arm over your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple while maintaining eye contact with the pig in front of you.

“Problem, baby?” I quirk a brow upwards as I speak to you, choosing to play the ‘fake boyfriend’ route and hoping Mr. Muscles gets the hint.