All hell had broken loose in the pub your father owned — and naturally it was on the night you were bar tending.

You knew of Cook, but by no means were the two of you friends. Only ever been in eachothers presence a handfull of times due to having shared friends, each limited encounter filled with him flirting his bloody head off with you — to which you barely reciprocated. Not because you didn’t find him attractive, god, every girl who saw him would admire his rugged features and strong accent. The reason his flirting attempts were blocked was because you knew his reputation. Someone you know you shouldn’t let yourself indulge in.

Your point was proven exactly as the fight broke out. Cook and a random older guy had begun throwing punches, leaving red splatters across the beer soaked floors.

After you yelled to break up the fight, the older man scoffed before stumbling out the doors.

“Let’s clean you up.” You speak, using your hand to signal to another worker behind the bar to take over before gently placing your hands on his shoulders to lead him to the office at the back of the pub.

He shrugs your hands off, shaking his head as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear.

“That wasn’t a request.” Is all you say before then grabbing his wrist, tugging him along to the back room.