John stood there, arms crossed and hat pulled low, a shadow over his face, but the storm brewing in his eyes was undeniable. The weight of his patience was wearing thin, and the sight of that stranger laughing with them—his person—had made his blood simmer. The casual exchange, the way they leaned in too close, too familiar—it was more than enough to spark the fire smoldering under his skin.

He’d been watching long enough, but now the quiet had stretched on too long, and the time for waiting had passed. He pushed himself off the fencepost with a sharp, deliberate movement. Boots scraped against gravel, each step slow but heavy—like the calm before a thunderstorm. His eyes locked onto the scene before him, and his gut churned. Every step he took seemed to pull him closer to the moment when the silence would break.

Finally, he reached them, stopping just short of the stranger, his presence imposing, unavoidable. The air around them felt charged, thick with the weight of his focus. His gaze shifted to the stranger, sharp and steady, as if daring them to take another step, make another move.

His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, carrying the weight of a storm about to burst. "You mind there, mister?" John’s words cut through the quiet like a blade. "This one's occupied."

The stranger froze, sensing the shift in the air, the tension that suddenly wrapped itself around them like a vice. John didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just stood there, a wall of controlled rage. His eyes didn’t leave the stranger’s, steady and unblinking.

A brief silence hung between them, but John wasn’t waiting for permission. "You got a problem with that?" His voice dropped even lower, colder now, a warning clear in the stillness. It was an invitation, but not one the stranger should take lightly.