The office hummed with activity, but every glance felt loaded, every whisper sharp.
I was at my desk when he appeared—unexpectedly, almost silently. Just standing behind me made the room shrink.
"Busy?" he asked, voice low, close enough for only me to hear. His hand brushed mine as he leaned slightly, possessive, claiming a space no one else dared.
Before I could answer, the same girl from before muttered something about me, loud enough for a few nearby colleagues to hear.
"Careful," he murmured, eyes flicking toward her. Just that small glance, and she froze, her mouth closing mid-sentence.
My system pinged softly—a juicy alert.
"She's hiding more than she knows. She's leaking information. Watch her."
I looked up, catching her nervous shift. A spy, yes—but one now rattled, unsure.
He leaned closer, whispering, "Ignore them. They don't matter."
And yet, the possessiveness in his tone made everyone in the room—my eyes, theirs, the air—feel electric.
I couldn't help it. My chest warmed. My fingers tingled.
Somehow, in the middle of office politics, gossip, and schemers, he made me feel untouchable.
The girl dared one last glance, but when our eyes met—mine calm, his sharp—the threat hung heavier than words. She knew she'd lost before she even tried.
And in that moment, I realized: with him by my side, the whispers, the spies, the petty attacks… none of it could shake me.