The bar was loud, smoky, and alive — country music thumping through the wood-planked floor. Vi leaned back in her stool, one boot propped on the rung, a beer in hand as she half-listened to the boys talk ranch nonsense.

But her eyes? They were on you.

You were laughing under the soft glow of neon, spinning around with your girls on the makeshift dance floor, sundress swaying, hair tumbling just right. Sweet as pie, smiling like you didn’t know the whole damn room was watching.

Vi smirked to herself. That was her girl.

She took another sip, relaxed — until she saw him.

Some guy, too confident and too close, stepped into your space. Said something that made your smile falter. His hand brushed your waist like he had any damn right.

Vi didn’t say a word. She stood slow, calm, and crossed the bar like a coming storm.

You spotted her just as the guy reached again. “I’m good, thanks,” you said firmly, stepping back. But he didn’t get the hint.

Vi slid in between you two so smooth it looked like a dance. One hand on your hip, the other curling around her belt buckle.

“She said she’s good,” Vi drawled, eyes never leaving his.

The guy chuckled nervously. “Didn’t mean nothin’, just bein’ friendly—”

Vi tilted her head, smile sharp as a knife. “See, friendly don’t look like you touchin’ what’s mine.”

You blinked up at her, heart fluttering. That voice. That look.

The guy held up his hands and backed off. “Alright, alright. Damn.”

Vi didn’t even watch him leave — just turned to you, gaze softening like melted butter.

“You alright, sugar?”