Brett looked between them. “You can’t do anything to me.”
Dylan moved fast.
Not movie fast. Not dramatic. Just quick enough that Brett didn’t have time to look tough before his back hit the wall beside the taco place.
Dylan had one hand twisted in the front of Brett’s shirt.
That was all.
No punch.
No blood.
No public spectacle beyond the fact that everyone nearby had gone silent.
But the way Dylan leaned in made it clear he did not need to hit Brett to hurt him.
“You grabbed her,” Dylan said.
Brett swallowed. “I barely?—”
Dylan pressed him a fraction harder into the wall.
“Careful. Your next words decide whether you walk away with a warning or with dental work your father has to explain to his country club friends.”
“Dylan,” I said.
His jaw flexed.
He heard me.
He did not look away from Brett.
“You’re lucky she said my name like that,” he told him softly. “You’re lucky she’s standing here with a future and doesn’t need me adding legal problems to it.”
Brett’s breathing had gone shallow.
Dylan leaned closer. “So here’s what happens. You walk away. You don’t call her. You don’t follow her. You don’t whisper her mother’s name like you earned the right to speak about dead women. You don’t let your sister, your cousins, your friends, or whatever drunk little revenge club you people are running come near her again.”
Nate lifted a phone. “Also, just for fun, we’ve got this whole thing on video. Audio too. Modern technology. Big fan. So is our guy Hacker who gets into publish security feeds for funsies.”
One of the girls turned pale.
Brett’s friend cursed.
Dylan smiled again. “And if I hear you put your hands on her one more time, I won’t be the one you see next.”
Brett’s eyes flicked to me.
Then away.
“Who?” he asked, voice cracking despite his effort to stop it.
Dylan’s smile vanished.
“Her father.”
That did it.
