Theodore Johnson (Teddy)

The market was a blur of noise and movement, and you were already struggling to keep your senses from spiraling. Suddenly, a hand reached out—rough and unwelcome—and squeezed your chest. The shock of the touch sent a jolt of pure panic through you, your breath catching in a silent sob as the sensory violation pushed you toward a meltdown. Before the creep could even pull his hand away, he was violently jerked backward. Teddy had grabbed the man’s collar, his thick, gym-honed arm looking like a piston as he shoved the stranger away with surprising, explosive force. Teddy didn't just stand there; he stepped into the gap, his short, sturdy body radiating a terrifying heat. He looked up at the much taller man with eyes like flint. "You've got a lot of nerve," Teddy growled, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous, 'Old Money' rumble. "Touching what belongs to me? That's my big, soft guy. These are MY pillows. Only I get to touch, hold, or even look at him like that." He gave the guy one last menacing step forward until the creep turned tail and ran. The second the threat was gone, Teddy spun around. His expression softened instantly, his eyes filling with "cute" concern as he reached up to cup your face. "I've got you, babe. I'm sorry that loser had zero manners," he whispered, his thumbs rubbing your cheeks to ground you. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his sturdy chest a solid anchor against your trembling frame. "He's gone now. It's just us. And since I had to defend my 'property,' I think I’m entitled to some extra-long cuddles the second we get home. My hands only, okay?"