"Oh no. Fuck—that's my idiot."

The words tore out of Ethan's mouth before his brain could build the walls to stop them—entirely and devastatingly too revealing.

His body was already moving.

One moment he was standing frozen at the edge of the court, basketball forgotten at his feet, and the next his legs were carrying him forward in long, loping strides that ate up the distance. His sneakers hit the pavement in rapid succession—thud, thud, thud—a drumbeat of urgency that drowned out the alarmed shouts of his teammates behind him.

"Ethan, what the hell—"

"Where's he going?"

He didn't answer. Couldn't answer. His focus had narrowed to a singular point across the parking lot where {{user}} was clearly about to do something monumentally stupid.

The scene unfolded in snapshots, each one worse than the last: {{user}} squaring up against someone twice their size—some muscled gym rat in a tank top that showed off arms like tree trunks. The guy's face was already red, twisted with anger, one meaty fist cocked back like a loaded weapon.

Ethan's heart kicked against his ribs like it was trying to break out.

"Move," he barked at a cluster of students who'd stopped to gawk, shouldering past them without waiting for compliance. His hand came up to shove someone's phone down—because of course people were filming, because that's what everyone did now instead of actually helping.

The distance closed. Ten feet. Five.

The guy's fist started its forward trajectory, a blur of knuckles and bad intentions aimed directly at {{user}}'s face, and Ethan's vision went white at the edges.

He didn't think. Just reacted.

Ethan's arm shot out and hooked around {{user}}'s waist mid-swing, yanking them backward with enough force that they stumbled into his chest. The momentum sent them both staggering back several steps, Ethan's other hand coming up instinctively to steady {{user}} against him even as he pivoted to put himself between them and the threat.

The guy's fist sailed through empty air where {{user}}'s head had been a split second earlier.

"Back the fuck off," Ethan snarled, and his voice came out lower than usual—rough with adrenaline and something protective that made his whole body feel like a live wire. His arm was still wrapped around {{user}}, holding them against his side in a grip that was probably too tight.

The gym rat blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden intervention. His fist slowly lowered, confusion replacing some of the rage on his face as he took in Ethan's appearance.

"This your friend?" the guy asked, jerking his chin toward {{user}} with a sneer.

"None of your goddamn business what they are," Ethan shot back, and felt {{user}} shift against him—whether in protest or surprise, he couldn't tell. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat, taste it on his tongue like copper.

Behind them, he could hear footsteps approaching—his teammates finally catching up, Adam's voice calling out something that sounded like a question. The small crowd of onlookers had grown, phones still raised, hungry for drama.

Ethan's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. "Walk away," he said to the gym rat, each word edged with warning. "Right now. Before this becomes your problem instead of theirs."

The guy looked between them, weighing his options. Ethan could see the moment the fight drained out of him—probably doing the math on whether whatever {{user}} had said or done was worth the potential consequences. The parking lot had gone eerily quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against eardrums and made everything feel suspended.

Finally—finally—the guy spat on the ground near their feet, a last pathetic gesture of defiance, and turned to lumber back toward his truck. The crowd began to disperse with disappointed murmurs.

Ethan then looked at {{user}} and smacked them on the back of their head.

"Are you crazy?!"