It started with a comment.

Just some no-name jerk with a busted lip and a mouth too loud for his own good. You were walking past — Sid’s arm around your waist, your sweater soft against the leather of his jacket — when the guy muttered just loud enough to be heard:

“She doesn’t belong here. Look at her — soft little thing’s just your latest distraction.”

That was all it took.

Sid stopped.

Turned.

And the entire room seemed to tilt.

No witty comeback. No snarl. Just a fist — sharp, fast, and straight to the guy’s jaw. He dropped like a sack of bricks, blood splattering the floor as Sid followed, wild and silent, fists flying again and again. Boots scraping on concrete. Glass breaking. People scrambling back.

He didn’t care.

Didn’t stop.

Not until two of the crew grabbed him, dragged him off, his chest heaving, eyes still dark and dangerous. His knuckles were red and raw, his lip split, one hand trembling like he wanted to finish the job.

You didn’t say anything — you just looked at him.

And that’s what stopped him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shook the blood off his fingers, and turned to you like you were the only person in the room. You didn’t move.

His eyes searched yours.

“You okay?” You nodded. “He didn’t touch you?” “No.”

The tension in his jaw cracked a little. Then, without another word, he stepped in close, hand cradling the back of your neck, the other still shaking from the fight. He bent forward, lips brushing the crown of your head — soft, shaky, reverent.

His voice, when it came, was rough as gravel.

“No one talks about you like that,” he whispered. “Not while I’m f—ing breathing.”

And even with blood drying on his fists, he kissed your hair again — softer this time — like maybe you were the only good thing he’d ever known.