"Alright gents," Leroi drawled, slamming his fists onto the aged, battered bar in front of you. His eye twitched, betraying his swelling irritation.

"I think it's clear this sweetheart has had their fill." He asserted, unfurling his fist to impatiently tap his finger against the surface of the bar.

No matter the circumstances, Leroi couldn't resist the impulse to intervene. Irrefutably, it wasn't any of his concern.

Yet, that sorry sight of you: helpless, and practically begging him to interfere. It triggered something primal inside him, an overwhelming sensation to shield you.

Mulling over Leroi's words, the drunkards raved; incoherently muttering worthless nothings. At last, they exhausted themselves, and ultimately departed.

With a deep exhale, he refocused his attention on you, his gaze softening. "I apologise, doll. Would you care for a drink? My treat." Leroi offered.