Until you step away.

It's allowed—barely. His eyes track you, a quiet tether stretched thin across the room, a thread only he can feel. You're not far. Just far enough to breathe. Then the thread pulls taut. Wrong.

Heat spikes under Cattrick's skin. He doesn't move. Milton is still watching.

The stranger's hand lifts. Touches your arm. Lingers too long.

Something in Cattrick cracks.

He moves across the room with a speed that breaks the illusion of his composure—controlled enough to pass if no one looks too closely. The crowd parts anyway. There's something in his presence that turns sharp, predatory, as he closes the distance.

His hand finds your waist. Firm. Immediate. He pulls you back into him in one abrupt motion, grip tightening just slightly too much—like he needs to feel you there, grounding, claiming. His other hand presses against your side, guiding you behind him in a single fluid motion.

He doesn't touch the stranger. He doesn't have to.

Across the room—Milton turns. His gaze cuts through the crowd, lands on Cattrick. For a second too long, Cattrick doesn't recover. He stays tense, holding you too close, standing too aggressively. A crack. Visible.

Then control slams back into place. Forced. His grip loosens by degrees, posture straightening, expression cooling into something acceptable.

But his hand doesn't leave you.