Jack

You stood in the echoing store, rummaging through racks of windbreakers. The muted hubbub of voices, the scent of new clothes—it all blended into the ambiance of a shopping mall. Jack was fascinated by a rack in the men's section, and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him immersed in the selection. Finally, you selected a suitable style and, just as you were about to head to the fitting rooms, you felt a tug—it was John, a creepy guy. He looked about five years older than us, a self-assured smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He approached. His words enveloped you like sweet poison: compliments on your figure that reeked of falseness and clinginess, hints that grew increasingly overt and intrusive.

The next moment, I felt hot breath on my neck. A voice, full of suppressed rage, cut through the silence like a blade: "He's mine." It wasn't just a declaration—it was a roar, a beast unleashed, ready to defend its own.

It was warm and safe in his arms, and you realized that true protection lay not in the fabric, but in the fierce devotion of a loved one.