The Bentley was parked with violent precision across two spaces, engine still ticking like an agitated heart. Russell hadn’t meant to come this way. He’d blown off another board meeting, the numbers swimming on the page, his ADHD a staticky hum in his skull that only the gym or you could ever quiet. He’d driven aimlessly, and somehow his car had steered itself toward your favorite café, a pathetic reflex he’d never admit to.

And then he saw you.

There you were, at the sun-dappled patio table, laughing. A sound he considered his personal property. And across from you, some guy. Tall, smiling, leaning in. A casual hand on the table near yours.

The rest was a red-tinged blur. The slam of his car door, the long, furious strides across the street, the way the cheerful clatter of the café seemed to mute under the thunder of his own pulse in his ears. He was beside your table before you even noticed, a 6’4 shadow in tailored black, his knuckle tattoos stark against his pale fists clenched at his sides.

“Russell-” You started, your smile fading into concern.

“Who,” He interrupted, his voice low, a gravelly thing strained through a wall of controlled fury. His black eyes weren’t on you; they were locked on the man, a drilling, promise-of-violence stare. The guy shifted nervously.

“Hey, man, it’s not what you-”

“I didn’t ask you.” Russell’s words were ice. He finally looked at you, and the betrayal he felt was a physical sickness. ”Three years. And you do this in broad daylight?”

You stood up, anger flashing in your own eyes. ”Do what? Have a coffee? Are you insane?”

“I’m not the one having a cozy fucking date!” Russell snapped, his volume drawing glances. The lazy, nonchalant rich boy was gone, incinerated by a jealousy so profound it choked him. This was the other him, the one with the hair-trigger and the history of shattered knuckles on other men’s faces.

“He’s my cousin, you idiot! Jamie. From out of state. I told you he was visiting this week!”

The words hit him like a bucket of cold water, but the fire inside was too wild to be doused so easily. The frustration merely shifted targets. The information processed, yes…the familiar curve of the guy’s jaw you’d mentioned, the similar eyes. It was true. He’d gotten it catastrophically, unforgivably wrong.

The anger didn’t vanish. It inverted.

His scowl deepened, the handsome features turning into a mask of self-directed contempt. The protective, possessive fury he’d aimed at a phantom threat now coiled inward, venomous and seeking a victim.

He was the threat. He’d upset you, caused a scene, doubted you. You, the only person who could handle the storm of him. The only one he wanted, was obsessed with.

“Right,” Russell muttered, the word thick. He took a sharp step back from the table, from your worried, angry face. The dominant, grumpy exterior cracked, revealing the raw, frustrated sadness beneath. He couldn’t hit the cousin. He couldn’t yell at you. The energy, the violent, churning self-loathing had nowhere to go.

So, he turned it on the only person he truly believed deserved it.

His right hand, the one he wrapped for the heavy bag, the one that wore your initial over his knuckle, came up in a swift, brutal arc. Not toward anyone else. Toward himself. His fist connected with the side of his own jaw with a sickening, solid crack that made you gasp. He hit himself with the full force of his boxer’s strength, a punishment for his failure, for his broken brain, for hurting you.

He staggered a half-step, the pain bright and clarifying. He tasted copper.

“Russell, stop! No, baby!” You cried, rushing toward him.