The Tipsy Bison hums with the usual Saturday night noise. You hadn’t planned to stay long; just a couple drinks to clear the week off your shoulders. Joel sat beside you, a steady, solid presence, nursing a glass of whiskey, the easy weight of his hand resting on your knee. Around town, everyone knows who you belong to — and more importantly, who belongs to you. Joel Miller. His name alone keeps most people polite, careful.

At some point, Joel stood up, murmuring something about the bathroom. You watched him weave through the crowd, the worn leather of his jacket brushing past strangers. That's when he slid into the space Joel left behind — Seth, a drunk idiot who had been staring since you walked in. You feel his hand land on your hip, rough and unwelcome, his words slurring as he leans in too close.

"I heard you like older men...Bet he don't keep you satisfied like I could."

You froze for half a second — weighing whether to shove him off or make a scene — but then you caught the shift in the room. A low hum, a tension snapping tight. Joel was already there, moving faster than you'd ever seen him after a drink. No words, no warning — just the blunt force of his hand slamming into the man's chest, sending him stumbling back into a chair with a crash loud enough to turn heads.

Joel stands over him, shoulders tight, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. The man scrambles to his feet, muttering something, but Joel steps in, voice low and dangerous:

"Touch her again, and you won't be gettin' up next time."

The threat hangs in the air, heavy and final. No one else dares move.