Sliding into the seat beside him, you adjusted your skirt as it shifted slightly while you crossed your legs. Malachi’s eyes flicked down briefly, taking note, before he looked back at the street, scanning without saying a word. His protective instincts were already alert.

The group erupted in chaotic conversation. Jokes, mock arguments over spilled coffee, playful nudges. You laughed along, though each movement made the skirt shift upward, tugging at it nervously every few seconds. Malachi’s gaze occasionally returned to you, subtle but unwavering, watching for any trouble.

——

Exiting the café, the streets were full of weekend energy. Vendors shouted prices, street performers played music, pedestrians wove in every direction. You stepped in the middle of the group, laughing at one of the cast’s jokes, when your attention caught movement across the street.

A group of teenage boys had stopped near a storefront. They whispered, nudged each other, and their eyes lingered far too long on you. You felt your stomach tighten as you tugged at the skirt.

Malachi noticed immediately. Without hesitation, he moved beside you, draping an arm casually over your shoulders.

“Hey,” he murmured low, just for you. “Stick with me.”

Your cheeks burned. “Oh god…”

He didn’t look away from the boys. “I got you.”

The boys exchanged awkward glances, then shuffled off. The rest of the cast naturally bunched closer, joking loudly, teasing to create a barrier, and distracting them. Malachi’s arm remained over your shoulders until the boys were completely out of sight.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered once you were safe.

“Yeah, I did,” he replied. “Also, your face when you noticed them… priceless.”

“You’re an idiot ,” you muttered, lightly shoving him.

“An idiot who just saved you,” he smirked.

——

The park was next. Sunlight spilled across the green lawn. Some of the cast sprawled on blankets, others tossed frisbees, some sat snacking on food from a nearby vendor. You tried to sit cross-legged, but your skirt rode higher with every adjustment. Malachi, ever observant, dropped his hoodie across your lap.

“Problem solved,” he said casually, though his eyes continued scanning the crowd.

You looked at him incredulously. “Did you just-?”

“Yup,” he replied, smirking.

The group’s chaos continued around you: frisbees flew, snacks disappeared in mock thievery, laughter filled the air. Every time the skirt shifted, Malachi subtly adjusted, shielding you without anyone noticing.

Later, the breeze picked up, tugging at your skirt as you chased a frisbee. You barely caught it in time, tugging at your hem frantically. Malachi caught your gaze and gave you a teasing smirk.

“Need a hand?” he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes!” you groaned, cheeks heating.

He offered his arm to steady you as you laughed, fingers brushing yours, and the moment felt both protective and intimate.

——

Heading toward the arcade, neon lights splashed pink and blue across the street. You approached a claw machine, determined to win a plush toy. Two older boys nearby clearly stared at you, smirking. Malachi noticed instantly.

He leaned against your machine, brushing shoulders with you. “Need backup?”

“Yes,” you groaned. “In the form of actually winning this thing.”

Within moments, he expertly snagged the toy and handed it to you. The older boys’ attention immediately shifted as they realized approaching would mean dealing with him.

“You’re my bodyguard and claw machine champion?” you teased, holding the plush to your chest.

“Exactly,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips.

——

Walking to the food court, the skirt caught on gusts of wind, brushing crowds repeatedly. Each time, Malachi noticed immediately. Sometimes he draped his hoodie over your lap; other times he subtly positioned himself in front of someone staring too long. The cast teased him endlessly, but he stayed unwaveringly protective.

At one point, a boy accidentally brushed past your side, causing your skirt to hitch dangerously high. Malachi shifted instantly, shielding you, muttering, “Careful.” Your cheeks burned, but the comfort of his presence was undeniable.

By evening, the group lingered under neon lights outside the food court. The laughter of your friends bounced off wet pavements as you held the stuffed toy. You reflected on the day, the skirt incidents, the boys staring, Malachi’s constant watchful presence, the playful chaos of the cast.

He leaned close, voice soft. “You don’t have to wait for me to notice. If you’re uncomfortable, just tell me. I’ll handle it.”

“Thanks,” you whispered.

“Anytime,” he said. “But maybe next time… rethink the mini skirt. You’re giving me heart attacks.”

You laughed, nudging him. “Dramatic.”

“Maybe,” he said, smirk tugging at his lips. “But you like it.”

It had started as a joke — or at least, that’s what you told yourself the first time it happened.

You were standing in the kitchen one lazy Saturday morning, scrolling through TikTok and laughing at a dance trend your best friend had tagged you in. You’d just finished your coffee, still wearing Malachi’s oversized hoodie and a pair of tiny pajama shorts, when you decided to film it.

It was one of those dances that ended with a quick twerk — nothing wild, nothing crazy — but you’d barely started the recording before you felt him.

Two big hands, warm and steady, covered your hips and guided you out of frame.

“What—” you laughed, but Malachi was already stepping into the camera’s view, standing squarely between you and the phone.

“You’re not posting that,” he said casually, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to block your entire body. “Especially not in those shorts.”

You rolled your eyes. “Mal, it’s literally just—”

“I know what it is,” he interrupted, smirking like he already knew exactly how to win this argument. “But your butt is my business. Not TikTok’s.”

From there, it became a pattern.

Whenever you two filmed videos together, Malachi somehow always managed to position himself just right — a “coincidental” step forward, an “accidental” arm stretch, or the classic trick: standing directly behind you so that if you turned, your back would hit his chest.

You started calling him your human butt shield.

He didn’t even deny it.

One afternoon, you were filming a GRWM (get ready with me) video in the mirror. You’d picked a fitted skirt, and Malachi had wandered into the room halfway through your lipstick application.

“Cute,” he said, walking past you… only to immediately double back and plant himself behind you in the reflection. His hands came down firmly on your hips, and you felt the faintest squeeze on your ass.

“Babe,” you laughed. “You’re literally in the shot.”

“Good,” he murmured near your ear, eyes locked on the camera. “Let them know you’re taken.”

The funniest part was when he didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

At a friend’s birthday party, someone pulled out their phone to record everyone dancing. The moment the music switched to something with a beat, Malachi appeared at your side like clockwork, his palm smoothing over the curve of your backside before resting possessively on your hip.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered.

“I’m prepared,” he replied, lips quirking.

Sure enough, when the song ended and you watched the replay, there he was — hands all over you, shielding you like you were some VIP asset he was hired to protect.

It all came to a head during one of your joint TikTok lives. The chat was begging for a trending couple’s dance.

“It’s the one where I twerk for, like, two seconds,” you explained, already pulling up the sound.

Malachi groaned dramatically. “Oh, that one.”

“Yes, that one,” you said with a playful glare.

The live started rolling, music blasting, and you got through the first half fine… but right before the twerk part, Malachi made his move.

He stepped right in front of you, body blocking the camera, and turned the move into a cheesy slow dance instead. Chat exploded with laughing emojis and comments like “Malachi is the real MVP” and “protective king”.

When the song ended, you swatted his arm. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned down, voice low so only you could hear. “No. I’m yours.” His hand squeezed your butt just enough to make you choke on a laugh. “And you’re mine. End of story.”

Later that night, as you were scrolling through the comments and laughing about everyone calling him “overprotective boyfriend of the year,” he slid in behind you on the couch, hands predictably finding their favorite place to rest.

“You love it,” he said smugly, kissing the side of your head.

“Maybe a little,” you admitted.

“Good,” he murmured, fingers drumming idly against you. “Because I’m never stopping.”

And somehow, you knew he meant it.

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“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

You blinked at him. “Oh my God, Colby…”

“No, I’m serious!” he pressed, leaning forward, eyes wide and playful. “Would you?”

Rolling your eyes, you tossed a pillow at him. “Of course I would. I’d get you one of those little worm habitats and feed you leaves or whatever.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Leaves? That’s it? No cuddles? No kisses?”

You smirked. “You’re a worm, Colby. What am I supposed to do, knit you a sweater?”

His grin widened into something downright devious. “Okay, okay. Say less.”

Before you could even process it, his whole form shimmered—his vampire-like energy flickering in the air—and in the space where Colby Madden sat, a large, wriggling worm flopped onto the comforter.

“COLBY!” you shrieked, launching yourself off the bed so fast you nearly tripped over the carpet.

The worm wiggled. WIGGLED.

You backed yourself against the wall, heart pounding. “No, nope, I—Colby, I told you I hate worms! You know I can’t—ugh!”

The worm wriggled again and then, with a shimmer, your boyfriend was back—grinning so wide you wanted to smack him. He was laughing, clutching his stomach, tears threatening to spill from his eyes.

“You should’ve seen your face!” he cackled. “Babe, oh my God, priceless—”

“Colby Madden, I swear—” you cut him off, still pressed against the wall, your chest heaving. “That wasn’t funny. You know I have scol—scol–whatever the fear is. Worms literally freak me out.”

The grin slid off his face at the wobble in your voice. Instantly, his shoulders dropped, guilt flashing in his eyes. “Babe… oh, no, no, no.”

He crossed the room in two strides, hands raised like you were a skittish animal. “I didn’t mean to actually scare you like that. I thought it’d just be funny.”

You glared at him, arms crossed, though your hands were still trembling. “You turned into a worm! That’s, like, my worst nightmare.”

His lips pressed together, and then, without a word, he shimmered again. This time, when the light dimmed, a fluffy golden retriever sat wagging its tail in front of you, tongue lolling, eyes round and apologetic.

You blinked.

“Woof?”

Despite yourself, a laugh burst from your chest. “You did not just—Colby…”

The retriever padded forward cautiously, tail wagging harder, and nudged your hand with its wet nose.

You let out another shaky laugh, your fear ebbing away as you threaded your fingers through the soft fur.

“There,” you murmured, scratching behind his ears. “This I can handle.”

The dog’s form shimmered again, and Colby stood in front of you, human once more. His arms slid around your waist, pulling you against him gently.

“I’m sorry, princess,” he said softly, his forehead resting against yours. “I should’ve remembered how bad that freaks you out. I promise—no more worm pranks.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Ever?”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Ever. Cross my heart.”

You sighed, leaning into him despite your irritation. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t stay a worm,” he teased.

“Colby.”

“Right, right. Dog only.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. Typical Colby Madden