The Tipsy Bason loud, smells of spilled beer and fried food hanging thick in the air. Laughter bounces off the walls like it’s alive. Joel’s on the far side, leaning against the counter with his friends, head thrown back in a rare, easy laugh. The way he carries himself when he’s relaxed like this—it makes your chest tighten, knowing how fierce he can be when he wants.

Meanwhile, you’re tucked in a quieter corner, the soft weight of your newborn in your arms. Their little coos and sighs make the noise around you fade, make you feel like the only person in the room that matters. You’ve got your hands full, minding the baby, keeping them warm, soothing them when the cries start to get loud.

Then someone approaches — a stranger, smiling a little too close, cooing at your baby. “What a cutie,” they say, reaching a hand toward the little one. Your grip tightens instinctively, just the tiniest, polite recoil.

That’s when you see Joel.

He’s standing a few feet away, silent now, jaw tight, eyes narrowing like a storm rolling in. The laughter from before has vanished. His posture stiffens. The muscles in his arms and shoulders shift, ready for movement.

You can feel it before he even reaches you: the heat of possessiveness, the dark edge of jealousy curling beneath his skin. Joel takes a slow, deliberate step toward you, voice low and dangerous, but calm enough to keep from drawing attention.

“You alright there, darlin’?” he murmurs, not looking at the stranger, only at you, the baby in your arms. There’s a warning in the tone — a quiet but unmistakable “back off.”