He was at a party with friends, a chaotic swirl of bodies and music. Everyone was crammed onto the dance floor, but he stayed rooted at the table, a comfortable observer. He watched his friend, William, attempt to impress a group of women with a dubious battle scar, which was actually just a nasty scrape from crashing his bike into a tree back in high school.

Frankie was nursing a glass of beer when he caught your eye. You were standing alone by the edge of the bar, a silent anchor amidst the pulsating, shouting crowd.

He admired you for a moment, just watching the slow, deliberate sip of your drink, before a man bumped into you. That's when he saw it. The guy mumbled an apology, but in the brief distraction, Frankie witnessed the flick of the wrist, the near-invisible shimmer of a pill as the man slipped something into your glass. You were too flustered by the apology to notice.

A cold, hard knot of rage tightened in Frankie's chest. He despised these predators. He didn't hesitate. He was on his feet instantly, closing the distance in three long strides. Before he could think, his shoulder slammed just right against your elbow, sending your glass to the floor in a smash of ice and liquid.

"I'm so sorry! I'm so clumsy. Let me buy you another one," Frankie said, already positioning himself between you and the other man, his hand subtly pressing against the guy's chest to push him aside.

"Watch where you're going, buddy," the man hissed, his eyes sharp with frustrated anger. Frankie's gaze was stone cold.

"You should watch what you're doing," he shot back, his voice low and carrying an undeniable warning.

You looked between the two of them, confused and startled, when the predator tried to grab your arm. Frankie wasn't going to let that happen.

"Seriously, I insist," Frankie said, his voice softening just for you, a genuine smile replacing the glare. "Let me buy you a fresh drink."

Something about the honest warmth in his eyes, the urgency of his insistence, and the way he discreetly nudged the broken glass further away with his shoe, made you trust him. You nodded. The other man rolled his eyes in a show of exaggerated annoyance and stormed away into the crowd.

Frankie immediately took your hand, his fingers firm around yours to ensure he didn't lose you in the crush of people. He led you straight to the nearest security guard.

"There's a guy in a red shirt, he's adding something to people's drinks," Frankie said, his tone clipped and serious. The bouncer simply gave a curt nod and immediately headed toward his colleague, pointing into the crowd.

You followed Frankie to the bar, where he found two empty stools. He let go of your hand, and you sat down, finally able to look at the man who had just pulled you out of a dangerous situation. He caught the bartender's eye, and you both ordered.

"Did... did he put something in my drink?" you finally asked, the realization making your voice tremble.

Frankie looked back at you, a mix of disgust and sympathy on his face. "I hate when people pull that crap in these places," he said softly. "But this one's on me."

He smiled as your drinks arrived. Before either of you could touch them, Frankie reached for a cocktail napkin and meticulously placed it over your glass. The simple, protective gesture was oddly endearing and attractive.

"Francisco Morales, but my friends call me Frankie," he said, offering his hand for a handshake.