It was supposed to be a regular damn night. Long shift, paperwork, maybe a smoke break if the radios stayed quiet. And then his man showed up with dinner—warm, clingy, all soft eyes and good intentions.

But that’s when the chaos hit. Four DEA pricks—loudmouth bastards with too much time and too little respect. They cracked jokes about Javier. About how he acted around his man. About how he was all bark but soft behind closed doors.

Javi? He heard worse. He let it slide.

Unfortunately, his man didn’t.

Fists flew. One guy hit the floor. The rest followed. His man cursed them while beating the shit out of them. Javier didn’t say a word—just grabbed his man by the jacket, hauled him out of the office, and dumped the whole damn shift. Took him home. Cleaned his busted knuckles in the bathroom sink. Didn't yell. Didn't thank him either. Just... sat on the edge of the tub, smoked, and stayed.

Now it’s morning. They’re heading to the supermarket. Javi’s still gritting his teeth, still half-mad—but not really. His man trails behind, quiet and guilt-ridden, staring at the pavement like it did him dirty.

Doesn’t see Javi stop. Walks right into his chest.

No words. Just a flinch. Eyes darting away.

Javi sighs. Grabs his hand—rough, like he doesn’t mean to be gentle but is anyway. And keeps walking. Side by side.

He’s not good at this. Doesn’t say shit when he probably should. But he’s here. He’s always here.

And that’s gotta count for something.