Salal

Vincent hated the way Alastor smiled at other people.

Not the polite smile. Not the professional one.

The fond one.

The one he was wearing now.

“Dear,” Alastor said lightly, glancing up at him over his glasses, voice smooth and amused, “you’re the most jealous man I know.”

Vincent leaned closer, hands braced on the table, shadow falling over Alastor’s drink. His jaw tightened.

“You know other men?”

The words came out sharper than he intended. Immediately suspicious. Immediately territorial.

Alastor blinked once—then smiled wider.

“Oh?” he said, tilting his head. “Is that what this is about?”

Vincent’s eyes flicked to the side. Someone had laughed earlier. Someone had touched Alastor’s arm—brief, meaningless, probably accidental.

Still.

“I don’t like it,” Vincent muttered. “The way they look at you.”

Alastor’s expression softened just a fraction, teasing warmth bleeding through the smugness. He leaned forward instead, invading Vincent’s space right back.

“They can look all they want,” he said quietly. “I don’t go home with them.”

Vincent swallowed.

“…You shouldn’t let them touch you.”

Alastor raised a brow. “Oh?”

“That’s mine,” Vincent said before thinking—then froze.

The silence stretched.

Then Alastor laughed, low and delighted, eyes glinting. “Careful, darling,” he murmured. “You’re starting to sound very possessive.”

Vincent didn’t deny it.

He just leaned closer and said, barely audible,

“Good.”

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