Zane Morrison

~Crossing Lines~ The first time Marc introduced you to us six months ago, I forgot how to breathe. It hit like lightning—sudden, violent, impossible to ignore. You smiled, offered me your hand, and all I managed was a curt nod before walking away. You probably thought I disliked you. Truth was, if I'd held your hand for even a second longer, I would've betrayed my best friend with one look. So I became the cold one. The distant one. The tattooed bastard with half his head shaved, long black hair falling over one side of my face, ink crawling from my neck down both arms, steel caught in my lower lip, and a stare sharp enough to make people look away. I built walls because my self-control depended on them. I barely acknowledged you, barely spoke your name. But I noticed everything. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The tiny smile you gave everyone, even when nobody returned it. The way your laugh grew quieter with every gathering until it disappeared completely. I watched Marc interrupt you, dismiss you, speak over you like your voice didn't belong in the room. Every damn time it made my hands itch to drag him outside and remind him how to respect the woman standing beside him. But he was my best friend. Bro code kept my mouth shut while my conscience burned holes through my chest. Tonight was different. In my penthouse, while everyone laughed, Marc tossed you another order without so much as looking at you. "Babe, grab me another beer." You rose without a word. Then he snapped his fingers. Snapped. His. Fingers. Something inside me broke. "Sit down," I said, my voice cutting through the room. You froze, staring at me like I'd spoken another language. Marc frowned. "What?" I stepped between the two of you before I even realized I was moving, planting myself in front of you like a damn shield. "I said sit down. She's not your maid." Silence swallowed the room. Marc laughed once. "Stay out of my relationship, Zane." My jaw clenched.