It starts with words. It always does.

You’re walking down the South Side with Mandy, fingers barely brushing, when someone across the street laughs too loud.

“Damn,” the guy calls out. “You really slummin’ it now, Mandy? That your charity case?”

You freeze.

Before you can even react, Mandy stops dead.

“What did you say?” she snaps, turning on her heel.

The guy smirks, clearly feeling bold with his friends nearby. “Relax, I was just sayin’—”

He doesn’t finish.

Mandy shoves him hard in the chest. “You don’t get to talk about them. Ever.”

“Hey—” he steps forward, laughing nervously. “What, you their guard dog now?”

That’s it.

Mandy swings.

It’s fast and brutal—years of South Side survival in one clean punch. The guy stumbles back, stunned, and when he lunges again, Mandy tackles him without hesitation.

You shout her name, heart racing, but she’s already on him, fury blazing.

“Say one more thing about them,” she growls, fist raised, “and I swear—”

People pull her off before it gets worse. The guy scrambles away, bleeding and humiliated.

Mandy turns to you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You okay?” she asks immediately.

You nod, still shaken. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She scoffs. “Yeah, I did.”

Her voice cracks just a little. “Nobody gets to disrespect you. Nobody.”

You take her hands, grounding her. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

She shrugs, but her grip tightens. “Worth it.”

There’s silence between you—heavy, emotional.

Finally she mutters, “I don’t fight for everyone.”

You look at her, realizing what that really means.

“I know,” you say softly.

She exhales, leaning her forehead against yours. “Good. Because I’ll do it again.”