When Harry turned 21, he started working at one of the busiest college bars in Manhattan, New York.

A music and production student himself, Harry worked to pay his bills. Choosing to study in such an expensive city meant helping his mother, who still lived in London, at least cover his stay in the United States and the apartment he rented—he refused to live in dorms.

Harry always had a talent for making drinks, especially flaming ones (something he wasn’t exactly proud of, as it exposed a past filled with illegal alcohol and reckless parties at seventeen).

The job treated him well. He didn’t complain. The people he worked with felt like a second family—one he trusted, and who trusted him enough to leave the bar entirely in his care whenever the owner was away.

That Saturday night was special. Christmas break had started, and those who weren’t going home for the holidays were celebrating the end of a brutal semester packed with exams. Harry was celebrating too, in his own way. Even while working, his friends crowded the bar, teasing him, ordering more drinks, leaving generous tips—making him feel free from university, at least a little.

Between laughter and pouring drinks, Harry noticed it.

At the side of the bar, a guy was cornering someone—a girl. He kept insisting she loosen up, that they should take the party back to his dorm, whispering things that made her visibly uncomfortable. She pushed him away, repeatedly telling him to leave her alone.

Harry was usually peaceful. Quiet. A little cold, distant, not the easiest person to read—rarely smiling except around the people he loved. But he was respectful. And he would never allow something like that.

Not in his bar. Not anywhere.

So he didn’t hesitate.

Harry grabbed the knife he used to cut limes for cocktails and drove it down between the guy’s fingers where his hand rested on the bar—not touching him, but close enough to make the message clear. The sound alone made both the guy and the girl turn toward him in shock.

Harry’s fist was tight around the handle, green eyes dark and unblinking as his cold, serious gaze locked onto the man harassing her. His white T-shirt under a red-and-black flannel, sleeves rolled up, revealed the tattoos lining his arms.

“Can I help you with something, buddy?” he asked calmly, eyes never leaving him. “You’re lucky I didn’t put it where I wanted to. You’ve got five seconds to get out of my bar and leave her alone. You’re already down to three, you little piece of shit.”