It was the kind of day where the universe seemed to have a personal vendetta against Joel Miller.

Between a nasty fall off his horse during patrol and a smashed thumb from a misplaced hammer while fixing a window, his body was aching. But the sting that lingered most was the way Ellie had snapped at him for "hovering" when he’d only tried to bring her dinner in the garage. By the time he hit the bar, he was done.

He was several shots deep by the time you walked in. Your day had been just as jagged, leaving you with a bitter taste in your mouth and a desperate need to offload the frustration onto someone else. When you spotted Joel hunched over the counter, he looked like the perfect lightning rod for your anger.

He gave you two warnings. The first was a low grunt when you took the stool beside him; the second was a sharp look when you wouldn't stop poking at his bruises. Joel wasn't a man to raise a hand to you, but he had a way of weaponizing his voice that "asshole voice" Ellie always talked about.

But you were drunk, reckless, and looking for a fight.

The air in the room seemed to freeze the second the words "couldn't even save Sarah" slipped past your teeth. Joel’s hand slammed onto the wood with a force that rattled the foundation, sending his liquor bottle toppling over. The liquid bled across the bar as every conversation in the room died instantly.

"Shut your fucking mouth."

His voice wasn't a shout. It was low, vibrating with a dangerous, quiet heat that made your blood run cold.

You had pushed him too far.