I nod, already picturing him.
“I’m going to handle it,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I reply. “But listen to me. You don’t owe him politeness. Not even a little.”
She swallows hard. “He keeps calling me dramatic.”
“That’s what they do when they don’t like boundaries,” I say. “Stay in here for a minute. Or call someone if you want. But you’re not alone.”
She nods quickly, relief washing over her face.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
I squeeze her shoulder gently before turning toward the door.
The bar feels louder when I walk back in.
Not because the volume changed, but because I’m suddenly aware of everything—every laugh, every shout, every moving body. I scan the crowd with purpose, spotting the guy within seconds.
He’s near the bar, leaning too close to a woman who’s turned slightly away from him, her smile tight and uncomfortable. He’s talking with animated hands, as if he’s performing. His posture screams entitlement.
My jaw tightens.
I walk straight up.
“Hey,” I say, calm but firm. “She said no.”
He turns, eyes flicking over me like he’s deciding what kind of problem I am. “Did she now?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “You her mom?”
“No,” I say. “I’m someone who heard her.”
He scoffs. “She’s fine. We’re just talking.”
“She’s not fine,” I reply. “And she’s not talking. You are.”
His smile turns sharp. “Who asked you?”
“I’m asking you now,” I say evenly. “Back off.”
He leans closer, too close, breath sour with alcohol. “Why don’t you mind your business?”
“This is my business when someone’s being harassed.”
He reaches out, fingers brushing my arm like it’s nothing, like I’m an object in his orbit.
I step back sharply. “Don’t touch me.”
His eyes narrow. “Oh, we’ve got a feisty one.”
I glance past him, seeing the woman slip away. Good. At least that worked.
But now his attention is fully on me.
