“Hands fucking off him.”
George’s voice cuts in, low and stripped of anything familiar. He steps in from my right and drives a short, compact punch straight into the big guy’s jaw with his splinted hand. The crack is loud. The man’s head snaps sideways and his grip on my shirt drops instantly. He stumbles back, shoulder slamming into his own table. Glasses and bottles crash to the floor in a sharp explosion of sound and shards.
I suck in a breath. “George—”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” The second man comes swinging wild.
I see it before it lands and step in, catching his arm, shoving him off line. It buys him some time. George uses it. He turns just enough, lets the hit glance off his shoulder, then answers with a tight hook that folds the guy mid-motion. The force sends him reeling backward into the third man. They collide hard, feet tangling, both of them nearly going down.
“Hey! Break it up!” someone shouts. Staff are moving, and no one listens.
The big one shakes his head and comes back in, furious now. He lands heavy hits to George’s face and ribs. George grunts but doesn’t back off. His eyes are dark, focused, running way too hot. Blood now trickles from a split on his cheek.
He blocks the next swing and drives his good fist into the guy’s gut, doubling him over.
“Enough,” I snap, stepping in again, grabbing at the third guy as he tries to circle behind, driving him back with a shoulder into a chair that skids out from under him. “Back off.”
George doesn’t hear me. The rage is pouring off him in waves, like something in him has snapped.
Everything’s fast and loud. Too loud, with glass underfoot, people shouting.
One of them swings again and lands another hit to George’s ribs.
I feel it in my own body.
I throw myself between them, shoving hard against George’s chest, grabbing his arm when he goes to follow through. “That’s enough!”
He’s solid under my hands, heat and tension wound tight. Breathing hard through his nose, shoulders locked, eyes still fixed on them. His splinted hand is already red and swelling worse from the punches he’s thrown. I can feel how close he is to losing it completely.
“Hey—eyes on me,” I snap, one hand gripping his jaw, the other pressed flat against his chest. “Look at me, George.”
I don’t think. I wrap my arms around him tight, hugging him hard against me, pinning his arms to his sides so he can’t swing again. My face presses into his shoulder. He’s warm and shaking with leftover adrenaline.
Someone’s on the phone calling the police. Voices from the other tables shout about who started it. The four guys are already hesitating, suddenly a lot less brave with the whole room watching and George still standing there like he’s not finished.
George’s gaze finally shifts, his eyes finding mine. For a second he still looks half out of it, chest heaving. His splinted hand twitches against my back.
“You’re bleeding,” I mutter into his shirt. My voice cracks. “Your hand—”
He goes still, probably finally realizing I’m right in front of him. His good arm comes up, firmly and surely wrapping low around my back, pulling me in until there’s no space left between us. It’s him anchoring me there, dragging me close enough that I have to meet him.
“Lance,” he says, lower this time.
Up close, his eyes are locked on mine, searching, like he’s checking for damage he can’t see. His grip tightens, keeping me from pulling away even if I tried.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice still hasn’t fully calmed down yet.
I nod, close enough that my forehead brushes his beard. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
He watches me for another second, like he doesn’t quite buy it. He exhales hard, the tension bleeding out of him in pieces. His hold doesn’t drop right away but it loosens by degrees, like he’s making himself let go.
“Fuck, G. I had it,” I say, my voice barely holding it together.
He grunts.
“I was handling it.”
“You were.”
