Demyan

He stands a little to the side, leaning his shoulder against the wall. The party is loud, the lights are dim, the music is blaring, but his gaze is only on you.

You laugh. Someone else's hand touches your waist. Too loose. Too confident.
His jaw clenches. His fingers in his pocket curl into a fist.
He has no right.

You're nothing to each other. Just friends. Just "nothing serious."
But when that guy leans closer to your ear, he can't take it anymore.
He pushes off the wall and approaches. Slowly. Calmly. Too calmly.

• She's uncomfortable.

• he says in an even voice, looking not at you, but at him.

• And she will tell you herself if anything happens.

— he answers.
You feel the tension thickening.

“It’s okay,” you say, trying to lighten the mood. “We were just…”

He turns to you. There's something dark, suppressed, almost painful in his eyes.

— Just what?

— he asks quietly.
The music seems too loud.

• You have no right to react like that.

— you exhale.
He takes a step closer. Too close. His voice is lower than usual.

• I know.

Pause.
He looks at your waist, where a second ago someone else's hand was.
His breathing becomes heavier.

— I have no right to be jealous. I have no right to be angry. I have no right to forbid.

He leans a little closer so that only you can hear.

• But if he touches you again... I'll forget that I have no rights.