The bar is a dim, low-ceilinged cave tucked off a side street in Hell’s Kitchen; sticky wooden tables scarred by decades of spilled pints and cigarette burns, neon beer signs buzzing like dying insects over a mirror-backed shelf of half-empty bottles.

Billy pushes back through the gents’ door, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans, the cheap paper towel already disintegrating. He’s loose from the three pints you’ve shared, that pleasant hum under his skin that makes the world feel a fraction less hostile. His eyes find you instantly across the room. You’re perched on the high stool, elbows on the scarred bartop, you’re laughing at something the bartender said, that easy, open laugh that’s rare these days and belongs to him, thank you very much.

Except now there’s a cunt in a too-tight button-down leaning into your space, one hand braced on the bar beside your hand, the other gesturing like he’s telling the funniest story in Manhattan. City boy—gelled hair, expensive watch flashing under the neon, the kind of smug grin that says he’s used to getting what he wants. Billy’s stride slows, a predator’s instinct kicking in before his brain catches up. Jealousy flares hot and immediate. He’s seen that look before (on richer men, prettier men, men who think a woman like you might be bored with a rough bastard like him).

The bloke’s voice carries as Billy approaches, oily and confident. “Come on, love, I don’t see your boyfriend anywhere. One drink won’t kill anybody. He doesn’t even have to know.”

Billy stops just behind the guy, his shadow falling across both of you. The air shifts; the bartender suddenly finds a glass that needs furious polishing. Billy’s voice comes out low, East London gravel wrapped in ice.

“Mate, you’re leanin’ on my bird’s personal space like it’s a bloody crutch. I suggest you fuck off before I help you find the door with my boot.”

The guy turns, smirk faltering when he has to crane his neck to meet Billy’s eyes. The bloke’s bravado shrinks a size.

“I was just—”

“Yeah, I heard what you were just,” Billy cuts in, stepping closer until the guy has to take a half-step back. “And I’m just tellin’ you—piss off while you still got all your teeth.”

You sigh—long, theatrical, the sound of someone who’s seen this play out a dozen times. You roll your eyes so hard he catches it in his peripheral, and it’s almost enough to make him grin.