The dim hum of the bar's jukebox filled the silence between drink orders. James sat alone near the end of the counter, nursing a beer he hadn’t touched in a while, eyes occasionally drifting to the doorway—old habits he hadn't shaken. Angela was behind the bar, doing her best to keep busy, to keep normal. But James could see the way her shoulders tightened just before it happened.

Some drunk leaned over the bar, smile all wrong, hand worse—fingers brushing her hip like he had the right.

"Hey!" James was already up, stool scraping back against the floor with a loud screech. He stepped between them without hesitation, not touching the guy but standing just close enough to shift the air. His voice was low, steady—dangerous in its calm. "That’s not yours to touch."

He didn’t look back at Angela yet. Didn’t have to. He could feel her—tense, brittle. And he was already thinking about the long walk home, the one they always took together now. Quiet, like the town they’d left behind, but safer.

"You okay?" he finally asked her, voice softer now.