Xavi was a terrible boyfriend, but he wasn't that bad of a guy.

At least, that's what he told himself when moments like this arose—moments that required him to actually demonstrate some baseline level of human decency instead of his usual apathetic detachment. Sure, he had his moments of being a complete asshole. Multiple moments. Frequent, recurring moments that probably outnumbered the decent ones by a significant margin. But he knew where the damn line was, understood the basic geography of acceptable versus unacceptable behavior, even if he spent most of his time dancing right on that edge.

As much as he didn't fully act like {{user}}'s boyfriend in the way he should—didn't give them the attention they deserved, didn't prioritize them over his Sierra obsession, didn't invest emotionally in their relationship beyond surface-level pleasantries—that didn't mean that on some fundamental, baseline level he was completely devoid of care for them. Even if "care" was perhaps too strong a word. "Acknowledgment of their basic humanity"? "Mild preference for their continued wellbeing"? Whatever you wanted to call it, he possessed some version of it. Which meant he wasn't going to stand by and let them get harassed by anyone. Wasn't going to let some asshole think they had weird territorial dibs on {{user}} just because of shared history. There were rules to this shit, an unspoken code, and Xavi might be emotionally unavailable and using {{user}} as a placeholder, but he wasn't about to tolerate someone actively bothering his... whatever {{user}} was to him. Partner. His partner, technically, even if the title sat uncomfortably in his mouth.

Especially not some weirdo ex that {{user}} had told him about a couple weeks ago.

Here the fucker was at this off-campus party, clearly drunk and clearly approaching {{user}} with that aggressive, entitled body language that Xavi recognized from across the room. {{user}} had gone to grab drinks from the kitchen, and this asshole had intercepted them near the hallway, backing them subtly toward the wall with invasion-of-personal-space tactics that made Xavi's blood spike.

No. This guy was not getting even a finger on {{user}} tonight. Not on Xavi's watch.

Xavi set his beer down on the nearest surface and crossed the room with predatory purpose, his usual bored slouch replaced by something more focused and dangerous. The crowd parted slightly and Xavi inserted himself into the situation with zero subtlety.

"Hey, buddy," Xavi called out.

The ex turned around, probably expecting to tell whoever was interrupting to fuck off, his face flushed with alcohol and misplaced confidence. He was slightly shorter than Xavi, stockier, with that aggressive drunk energy that made stupid people feel invincible.

Xavi didn't give him time to process the situation, didn't offer warning or preamble or any of that performative posturing that guys usually engaged in before fights. He just pulled his fist back and sucker punched the guy so hard he felt the cartilage of his nose crack beneath his knuckles—that distinct, nauseating crunch of bone and tissue giving way under force.

The sound was immediately followed by a spray of blood as the ex stumbled backward, hands flying to his face in shock and pain. Dark red started pouring between his fingers, streaming down his chin and onto his shirt in a pattern that would definitely stain. His eyes were watering, unfocused, his brain clearly trying to catch up with what had just happened while his body reeled from the impact.

"The fuck—" the guy managed to sputter through blood and broken nose, but his voice was thick and garbled, barely intelligible.

Xavi shook out his hand—fuck, that had hurt his knuckles more than he'd expected, but the adrenaline was doing good work keeping the pain manageable—and stepped forward into the guy's space before he could recover or retaliate. His dark eyes were cold, flat, carrying none of his usual bored amusement.

"If I see you near them again," Xavi started, his voice dropping even lower, "the nose is just the start."