1989

Saul was the kind of man that was actually pretty laid back and chill. You knew what you were signing up for—tattoos, whiskey breath, a guitar always slung over his shoulder, and that cocky grin that made your stomach flip. But you also knew he had a temper, after a few drinks, and his usual shyness often disappeared when he was drunk.

Tonight, he’d had more than a few.

You were talking with one of his bandmates, Duff, when you noticed Saul at the bar, jaw clenched, his posture stiff. He was arguing with some guy who clearly said the wrong thing. You knew that look in Saul’s eyes—the flicker of fury right before he threw a punch.

You moved fast.

“Saul.” you called out, already at his side. You placed a hand on his arm, gently tugging him back. “That’s enough, baby. Let it go. He’s not worth it.”

His eyes flicked to yours, wild and burning—but he listened. He always did with you.

You stepped in front of him and turned to the guy with a cool smile, wrapping an arm around Saul’s shoulders like an anchor.

“Sorry ‘bout my boyfriend,” you said sweetly, though your tone was firm. “He’s got a sharp tongue when he’s protective. Can’t blame him.”

Saul let out a breath, resting his head against your shoulder with a smirk. “Didn’t need saving,” he murmured.