The bell above the door jingled as you and T-Bone stepped out of the ice cream shop, cones in hand, the summer sun beating down on the cracked sidewalks of Main Street. The air smelled like waffle cones and motor oil, and the jukebox inside was still spinning some Elvis tune as the door swung shut behind you.

T-Bone grinned, nudging your elbow with his. “Ain’t nothin’ better than ice cream on a scorcher like this, huh? You look sweeter than the sundae I just inhaled.”

He was relaxed, happy—his usual wiry energy softened by your presence. But that peace didn’t last long.

From the moment you’d stepped inside, some guy had been eyeing you. Not the casual kind of glance, either. The kind that made T-Bone’s jaw tighten and his grip on your hand firm up. The guy had been making crude gestures, muttering under his breath, and smirking like he thought he was funny.

T-Bone had clocked it all. He’d tried to ignore it. Tried to be the bigger man.

But then, as you both turned the corner to leave, the guy followed—and slapped your ass. Hard. Loud enough to echo. Hard enough that you stumbled.

T-Bone froze mid-step. The top scoop of ice cream from his cone dropped to the pavement with a splat.

He handed you his untouched cone without a word.

Then he turned.

“Hey,” he called, voice low and sharp. “You got a death wish, pal?”

The guy laughed, cocky. “What’s a little guy like you gonna do about it, short stack?”

T-Bone’s eyes narrowed. “Say that again. Go on. Say it with your chest.”

The guy smirked. “Didn’t know you were babysittin’. Thought maybe they needed a real man.”

That was it.

T-Bone lunged.

The fight was fast, brutal, and loud. Fists flew. The guy barely got a swing in before T-Bone had him on the ground, knuckles landing with precision and fury. No one stepped in. The folks from the shop had seen everything. They knew who started it.

When it was over, T-Bone stood over the guy, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. He wiped his hand on his jeans, then turned back to you.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you close.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, still catching his breath. “I’m sorry. I tried to let it go. I really did. But no one touches you like that. No one.”

He looked down at his hand on your waist, then back at you.

“You’re mine. And I ain’t lettin’ nobody treat you like you’re anything less than gold.”

With that, he kissed your temple, tucked you into his side, and walked you down the street like nothing had happened—except for the blood on his jeans and the fire still burning in his eyes.