You were still shaking, and that alone scared you more than the incident itself.

You’d never been afraid before—not really. Fear had always felt like something that happened to other people. You grew up wrapped in protection: a caring father, Kyle, whose presence alone could quiet a room, and five brothers who treated you like sacred ground. You were never unguarded. Never alone. Never prey.

And then there was August.

Before the accident, he had been your shield in the quiet way—never loud, never aggressive, but always there. The kind of boyfriend who stood just a little closer when strangers stared too long. The kind who noticed exits, who checked in with his eyes before his mouth. You felt safe with him in a way that wasn’t flashy but was absolute.

Now he was learning how to live again.

The car accident had taken his legs, but it hadn’t taken him—not fully. Depression tried to finish the job, though. There were days he barely spoke, days his hands shook with frustration when his body didn’t obey him. Progress came in inches, in sweat-soaked physical therapy sessions and nights where exhaustion hit harder than hope.

And you stayed.

You didn’t flinch at the wheelchair. You didn’t romanticize it either. You just adapted. You pushed him up mountains on hikes, legs burning, laughing breathlessly at the top like you’d conquered something holy. You rolled him straight into the water at the beach, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the way people didn’t know where to look. You helped him into bed, learned the angles, the careful strength love sometimes requires.

You never treated him like less.

You just loved him.

And you weren’t alone in it.

Steve was always there—August’s best friend, your shadow, the unspoken third presence. Six-foot-five, built like gravity had personally sculpted him. Muscles everywhere, but not the polished, show-off kind. His strength looked earned. Human. Like it came from work and loyalty and lifting what needed to be lifted.

He wasn’t aggressive. If anything, he was gentle to a fault. Soft-spoken. Careful with his hands despite their size. Always hovering nearby, ready without being asked.

Which is why it shocked you—truly shocked you—when he punched that man at the amusement park.

The guy had been circling you all afternoon. You tried ignoring him. Tried moving away. He touched you anyway. Called you names—cow, fat, stupid. Threw food. Smiled while doing it.

August tried to say something. His voice shook, but it was there. The man laughed.

Called him a cripple.

Kept going.

And then Steve appeared.

One second the air was loud and cruel and humiliating— the next, Steve’s fist connected with the man’s jaw so hard it sounded unreal. Bone on bone. A sickening crack. The guy went down, stunned, mouth already swelling, jaw visibly wrong.

The crowd gasped.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t feel bad. You felt… relieved.

But relief didn’t erase the fear. It didn’t stop your hands from trembling afterward, or your chest from tightening like something had finally slipped past all those years of protection and gotten its claws into you.

So you lied.

You told them you needed the bathroom. You smiled, weak and practiced, and walked away before anyone could stop you. You didn’t go inside. You just kept walking until the noise faded and the parking lot swallowed you whole.

You crouched beside your car, knees pulled in, pressing yourself into the metal like it could hide you. You needed air. Space. A minute where no one needed anything from you—not reassurance, not gratitude, not strength.

Your breath was still uneven when you heard footsteps.

Slow. Careful.

Steve stopped a few feet away, like he didn’t want to scare you more.

“Hey…” his voice was low, grounding. “Are you alright?”

You didn’t look up.

“August went to the bathroom,” he added quickly, like he needed you to know. “I just… I wanted to check on you.”