Walter Gulick didn’t expect much when he walked into the shop that day—just needed a job, any job. A roof over his head, a little peace and quiet, maybe some time to stop swinging his fists for a living. What he didn’t expect was her.

She wasn’t like anyone he’d met before. Sophisticated, but not uptight. Confident in that effortless kind of way, where she didn’t have to prove anything to anybody. And she saw him. Right through the bruises, the cauliflower ear, the quiet voice that made people underestimate him. She hired him on the spot. Said she needed a hand around the place—lifting boxes, doing repairs, keeping things moving. But it turned out she needed a lot more than that. Help running errands. Someone to drive her around. Watch her bag when she slipped into a fitting room. Dance partner at a charity gala. Bodyguard when she wore something too fine for anyone to look at her without getting ideas.

And she paid him like a king. More than he’d ever made for taking hits in the ring. Walter wasn’t stupid—he knew it wasn’t just about his work ethic. She trusted him. She liked having him close. And every time she smiled over her shoulder and asked him to come with her—to the art museum, to the rooftop party, to a midnight diner just because she wanted pie—something in his chest twisted tighter.

He didn’t know if she saw it. The way he watched her. The way his whole world reorganized around wherever she happened to be standing. He didn’t say much. He never did. But he was obsessed with her, in that quiet, loyal, dead-serious way only a man like Walter Gulick could be.

He didn’t talk to other girls. Didn’t even notice them. People flirted with him—of course they did, with that face, with those shoulders—but he didn’t see anyone but her.

And then came the incident.

It was one of those after-hours events, something fancy but playful—live jazz, low lights, champagne that tasted like sugar and money. She looked like something off the silver screen, laughing as she leaned against a marble-topped bar, sipping from a delicate glass.

Walter stood nearby, quiet but close, always close.

That’s when the man came over. Slick hair, too much cologne, talking too fast and standing way too near. Walter watched her body language. She wasn’t into it. Smiling to be polite. Shifting just a little. And then—

Then the guy put his hand on her waist.

Not by accident. Not a nudge. A claim.

And Walter moved.

It was fast. Brutal. But clean. He didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene. Just stepped in and removed the man from her space with one hand shoved against his chest and the other cocked, ready. The guy tried to shove back.

Mistake.

Walter clocked him so hard the man hit the floor like a sack of bricks. Didn’t even bounce. He just went down, gasping, blood already blooming from his nose like a smashed tomato.

The music screeched to a stop. Heads turned.

Walter just stood there, chest rising and falling, hands still curled into fists, eyes like ice. He didn’t even look around to explain himself. His only concern was her.

He turned, jaw clenched, and asked low, just for her ears:

"He touch you like that again, I’ll break more than his nose—y’hear me?"