The air between us shifts. Like it’s humming now.
“What did you say to him?” I ask softly.
He hesitates, his jaw working like he’s debating whether to tell me. Then his eyes meet mine. There’s something dark and protective in them that makes my stomach flip.
“I told him if he ever touches you again, I’ll break his fingers one by one.”
My breath catches. “You didn’t.”
“I did.” No apology in his tone. “And I meant every word.”
The fierce certainty in his voice sends heat rushing through me.
“Well.” I swallow. “He believed you.”
“Good.” Luke’s eyes haven’t left mine. “He should.”
We stand there in the cold for another beat, the moment stretching between us.
Then I remember we’re still being watched.
I glance around. A lot of guys are looking at Luke with newfound admiration or unease, like they’re just realizing how much they underestimated him. About half the girls are staring adoringly at him, whispering to each other behind their hands. The other half are glaring daggers at me.
Great.
I drop my hand.
“Show’s over,” I announce, forcing my voice back into waitress-mode. “And Kevin’s tab is still open, so he’s buying everyone a round!”
A cheer goes through the bar, and just like that, the tension breaks. People start filing back inside, already arguingabout what they saw, embellishing details, making Luke into either a hero or a maniac depending on who’s telling the story.
But Luke doesn’t move. He’s still looking at me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too warm despite the freezing air.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, just for him.
All he says is, “It’s my job to protect you.”
And somehow, I believe him.
Luke and I are closing up as usual when I notice something unusual.
A trickle of blood is running down his arm.
“Luke!” I gasp. “You’re bleeding.”
He glances down and shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he says, grabbing a napkin to dab it away. “Just scraped the door hinge dodging the human refrigerator.”
“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get tetanus,” I scold him. “Sit down and let me clean you up properly.”
There’s a tolerant look on his face as he obliges. I run to the storage room to grab a first aid kit, wash my hands in the bathroom, and pull up a chair next to him.
Pushing up his sleeve reveals a nasty scratch. Not deep enough for stitches, but it looks painful. “How come you didn’t say anything?” I ask him.
“Didn’t even feel it, honestly.”
I roll my eyes. “Men.”
“Judging by the look in your eyes, I have a lot of things to make up for, on behalf of the male species.”
