Mandy Milkovich didn’t get protective over just anyone.

So when she noticed the way that guy kept hanging around you—too close, too quiet, eyes lingering longer than they should—something in her snapped.

“You know him?” she asked, lighting a cigarette, voice casual but eyes sharp.

You shook your head. “Not really. He just… won’t leave me alone.”

That was all it took.

From that moment on, Mandy was everywhere. Walking you home. Sitting beside you at the diner. Leaning against walls with her arms crossed like she dared the world to try something.

“You don’t gotta babysit me,” you told her one night.

She shot you a look. “Yeah? Watch me.”

A few days later, the guy cornered you outside a corner store. He didn’t touch you—but he didn’t need to. His words were enough to make your stomach drop.

Then Mandy appeared.

You didn’t even hear her coming.

She stepped between you and him, eyes blazing, voice low and dangerous. “You lost?”

He laughed. Big mistake.

Mandy leaned in close, smiling—but there was no humor in it. “You talk to them again,” she said quietly, “I swear you’ll wish you’d moved outta this neighborhood.”

Something in her tone made him step back.

He muttered something and walked off fast.

You were shaking when it was over.

Mandy turned to you instantly, anger gone, replaced with worry. “Hey. You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice cracked. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” she said firmly. “No one messes with what’s mine.”