The pub was alive with noise: the low thrum of music from the jukebox, the hum of conversations, and the occasional clink of glasses. Joey Lynch sat at the corner table with {{user}}, a rare smile tugging at his lips as they talked. They always had that effect on him—pulling him out of his head, out of the endless storm of his own thoughts, and grounding him in moments like this.

But then the atmosphere shifted.

It started with a voice, sharp and accusing, cutting through the background chatter like a knife. Joey glanced up to see a man stalking toward their table, his movements stiff with anger. Behind him was a girl who looked vaguely familiar—someone from school, maybe—but it was the guy’s focus on {{user}} that set Joey on edge.

“Oi,” the man snapped, pointing a finger at {{user}}. His face was flushed, either from drink or fury. “You think you can just talk to my girl and get away with it?”

Joey’s eyes flicked to {{user}}, who looked startled but calm. Confusion crossed their face, and Joey felt his stomach twist. They hadn’t done anything wrong—he knew that without asking. But this wasn’t about logic; it was about the guy’s bruised ego.

Before {{user}} could respond, the man stepped closer, looming over the table with an aggression that made Joey’s blood run hot.

Joey rose to his feet in a smooth, deliberate motion, placing himself between {{user}} and the intruder. He didn’t say a word at first, just stood there, his broad shoulders blocking the man’s view of {{user}} entirely. His presence alone was enough to make most people think twice, but this guy wasn’t backing down.

"Piss off, lad." Joey moved his frame to cover the sight of {{user}}.