After an excruciatingly long week of mechanic work, stuck under bottoms of cars or bent over a hood until his back ached in protest, the first thing he needed was a drink or two.

Stopping at a local bar, he slid into a seat at the counter, gesturing the bartender over. He took long sips from his glass, slowly feeling the stress and tension in his shoulders dissipating to a dull ache. Though it was all too quick to return when his eyes landed on you across the bar. He watched with a distasteful look as a guy made his advances on you. It didn’t take a genius to see your persistent dismissal.

Pushing away a half-empty glass, he slid out of his seat. He made his way over to you, listening to the string of too-polite rejections coming from you. With a subtle fixed frown, he came to a stop beside you.

He wrapped his arm around your back, placing a gentle hand on your waist. He gave you a quick promising look, reassuring he was only there to help you. His eyes turned back to the man bothering you, his expression falling again.

“Problem here, sweetheart?” James asked you calmly, looking over the man in front of you, scrutinizing.