John Price had been awake for thirty-two hours when he noticed her.

The pub was loud, thick with heat and cigarette smoke, laughter bouncing off low wooden beams. He should’ve gone home. Drill at six. Boots still dusty from the day. Instead, he stood at the bar nursing a pint he didn’t particularly want.

She slipped inside like a stray dog seeking warmth. A small bag clutched to her chest, her coat too thin for the weather, her hair slightly mussed, like she’d run here straight from somewhere else — which, judging by the faint grease mark on her sleeve and the exhaustion shadowing her eyes, she probably had.

She paused just inside the door, scanning the room cautiously. Wrong place for someone like her. Not weak. Just… soft. The kind of soft the world tended to bruise. She edged toward the bar, keeping close to the wall. When someone laughed too loudly behind her, she flinched.

John frowned.

She tried to get the bartender’s attention. Once. Twice. Talked over both times. The third attempt faltered halfway up — her hand lowering, retreating a step as if she’d decided she wasn’t worth the trouble.

Right. That was enough.

John stepped forward. His presence alone carved space — broad shoulders, quiet authority, the kind of posture that made men shift without knowing why.

“She was here first,” he said evenly.

The bartender blinked, then turned to her. Her eyes widened slightly at the sudden attention. “Oh— I, um—” Her voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the noise.

“Take your time,” Price muttered, low enough for only her to hear.

She swallowed and ordered the cheapest drink on the board. Of course she did.

When it came, she counted coins from a worn wallet, cheeks pink with embarrassment. Price deliberately looked away. Let her keep her dignity.

She turned with her glass and nearly walked straight into him. “S-sorry!” she blurted, instantly stepping back like she expected to be scolded.

Price blinked down at her. Up close, the exhaustion was clearer. Not one bad night. Ongoing. Bone-deep. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, brows furrowing slightly.

She stared at him like he’d spoken another language. “Oh. Thank you. For before. You didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t like the look of it.”

Her lips twitched — a shy, fleeting almost-smile. There it was. She hovered awkwardly, clearly unsure whether to flee or say more.

“You waiting for someone?” he asked.

She shook her head quickly. “No. I just… needed somewhere to sit for a bit.” The admission seemed to embarrass her.

Needed somewhere to sit. Not meeting friends. Not celebrating. Just existing.

Price glanced at the packed pub, then back at her small frame, coat sleeves tugged over her hands. He could walk away. Instead, he nodded toward the empty stool beside him. “Sit.”

She hesitated — measuring him. Smart. When she finally perched on the edge of the stool, posture careful, like she didn’t want to take up space, something unfamiliar settled under his ribs. Something protective.

He took a slow sip of his drink. “What’s your name?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still avoiding his eyes. “…Dove.”

Of course it was. A faint huff left him. “John.”

And for the first time that night, he didn’t feel quite so tired.