You stood at the edge of the crowd, fists clenched and heart racing, the sting of someone’s careless words still echoing in your ears. The accusation hadn’t just been unfair—it had been cruel. And after the fight you and Jimmy had the night before, you didn’t expect him to show up.

But he did.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him—Jimmy Dobyne—shoulders squared, jaw tight, his usual easygoing air replaced with something sharp and deliberate. He didn’t look at you as he stepped forward. His eyes were locked on the one who had thrown dirt on your name.

“You got something to say?” Jimmy asked, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The guy hesitated. “I was just—”

“Nah,” Jimmy cut him off, “you weren’t just anything. You were talking like you know her. But you don’t.”

You held your breath. The crowd had quieted. Jimmy wasn’t shouting, but every word hit like a punch.

“She’s got more backbone than half of you standing here,” he continued, his tone low, unwavering. “And she doesn't need anyone defending her—but I’m here anyway. So you might want to think twice before running your mouth again.”

Silence.

The guy mumbled something and walked off, and Jimmy finally looked over at you. For a second, you saw it—under the surface anger—he was worried. About you. About the fact that anyone even dared to question you.