The bar is packed, the air electric with the pulse of heavy bass and the scent of spilled beer. The crowd is rowdy—bodies pressing too close, voices slurring over the deafening guitar riffs. From the stage, Vince spots you almost instantly. Even through the haze of dim neon lights, he can tell you don’t belong here—not in this chaos, not surrounded by these people.

A flicker of something sharp passes through his expression mid-song, and though he never misses a note, there’s a sudden edge to the way he plays. His fingers move with more aggression, his stance tighter, as if he’s fighting the instinct to drop his guitar and make his way to you.

By the time the set ends, he’s already moving, pushing through the drunken crowd with single-minded determination. His leather jacket brushes against rough shoulders, but no one dares to stop him—not with the way his jaw is clenched, his eyes burning with a silent warning.

Then, finally, he reaches you. His hand finds your wrist—firm but not rough—as he pulls you closer, his body instinctively shielding you from the chaos around.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice is low, urgent, barely audible over the music still blasting from the speakers. His brows are furrowed, his usual sharp smirk nowhere in sight.

Before you can answer, someone stumbles too close, and his arm moves instinctively around your waist, pulling you further into the safety of his chest. His breath is warm against your temple as he mutters, “This place isn’t safe for you, baby. Let me get you outta here.”