The guy doesn’t take a hint.

You’ve been polite. Dismissive. Even outright cold. But he just keeps leaning in closer, flashing a smile that probably works on someone else, somewhere else. His hand ghosts toward your wrist, and your patience is a breath away from snapping.

Then the air shifts.

A shadow moves in behind you, solid and unmistakable. The scent of gun oil and leather fills your senses, a presence you know better than your own heartbeat. Before the creep can touch you, a hand—rough, calloused, and familiar—settles low on your waist, pulling you back into something unyielding, something safe.

Frank. Your Frank.

The guy freezes as the temperature between them drops to lethal levels. You don’t have to look to know Frank’s gaze is on him, heavy and dark, promising nothing but bad endings.

“She’s not interested,” Frank says, his voice low, steady—dangerous in a way that doesn’t need to be loud.

The guy swallows, nervous now, but still trying to play it off. “Hey, man, relax, I was just—”

“Leaving.”

It’s not a suggestion.

And this time, the guy listens.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding tension in your shoulders until Frank turns you fully into him, his hand still firm on your waist, his eyes scanning your face like he needs to make sure you’re really okay. His thumb brushes over your hip—small, barely there, but enough to ground you.

“You good?”

You nod, your pulse still catching up with the shift from frustration to relief. He studies you for another beat, then his hand tightens just a fraction.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice dropping so only you can hear, “just say the word. I’ll handle it before they get the chance to piss you off.”

And you believe him. Because Frank Castle doesn’t do warnings twice.