The Garrison smelled like spilled beer and blood—old wood soaked in the kind of violence that clung to the walls like ghosts. Chairs were overturned, glasses shattered in corners, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air like the aftermath of gunpowder. Voices still lingered, sharp and angry, though the fight had mostly passed like a storm that had ripped through and moved on.

You stayed near the far side of the bar, heart still thudding against your ribs, a sharp ache blooming beneath your left side where you'd been slammed into a table’s edge during the chaos. It hadn’t been intentional—just the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone had thrown a punch, someone else had stumbled, and then there you were, catching splinters in your palms and trying not to cry out. Your breath had left you in a startled hiss, and you'd crawled behind the bar like a wounded dog, unnoticed. Or so you'd thought.

Now, you stood with your back to the wall, coat clutched tight around your frame, the bruise throbbing beneath it like a secret. You hadn’t looked for him. You didn’t want to. Because if Tommy had seen it—if he knew someone had even accidentally hurt you—there would be consequences. Cold, efficient, and terrifying.

And you weren’t afraid for yourself. You were afraid for the man who’d done it. Because you knew Tommy. Knew what his love looked like when it turned into fire behind his eyes.

You were just about to slip toward the door, heart quietly begging to vanish before he spotted you, when you heard his voice—not loud, not panicked. Just quiet. Controlled. Cutting through the din like a blade.

“Where is she?”

You froze. Arthur was muttering something behind him, but Tommy was already moving. His eyes scanned the room with that eerie stillness, the kind that always came right before something ended.

You pressed further into the shadows, cursing yourself for not leaving sooner.

And then he saw you.

He didn’t say your name. He didn’t run. He just walked—like the whole world would part for him if it needed to—and reached you in a matter of heartbeats.

His eyes swept over you, sharp and quick, and when they landed on the way your hand pressed too tightly to your side, they stopped.

His voice, when it came, was calm. Far too calm.

“Who?” One word. One promise.

You shook your head. “It wasn’t like that. I just—someone got pushed, that’s all. It’s nothing.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that his coat brushed yours, that you could feel the heat of his presence even through the throb in your ribs. His hand came up to gently move your arm, and despite your flinch, he didn’t stop. Just peeled the coat back enough to see the damage beneath.

His jaw flexed. He said nothing.

“I didn’t want you to see,” you whispered, too tired to pretend. “I didn’t want you to do something stupid over it.”

“I don’t do stupid,” he said, still not looking at your face. “I do necessary.”

He didn’t ask again who it was. Because he already knew.