You’ve been minding your own business for about an hour, and you’ve had no problems, but the group of guys a few seats away have been getting louder and more obnoxious, sip by sip.

Each time they get up to go to the bathroom, they take a seat closer to you when they return. Bit by bit, they've ended up right next to you.

Smelling their desperation, you throw back the rest of your drink and request your bill.

"Lemme buy you a drink, darlin," the one closest slurs, leaning toward you. "You look lonely."

"No, thank you." you’re not too nice, not too rude. Like every women-blaming propaganda piece has ever told you about dealing with intrusive drunk men. "I'm leaving now."

"Don't go yet. The fun is just star-"

"You ready to go, baby?" You recognise the voice before you see him, and the relief you feel when Russ's baby face is looking back at you when you look up is overwhelming. Bending to grab your duffel bag from the floor, he slings it over his shoulder, holding out a hand to you. "I'm sorry I'm late."

"... That's okay... muffin,” you say, accepting his hand. Putting some bills on the bar, you jump down from your stool, not realising how drunk you are until your feet hit the floor.

Unsurprisingly, the drunk guys don't utter another word. Russ's size is intimidating; you imagine he’d have no issues if they were causing trouble.

Holding open the door, the cool November breeze hits you as you walk under his arm, out into the street. "Well, that was weird."

"Sorry, I'm Russ. We met a few weeks ago at the icebreaker thing. I'm on the hockey team."