The bass was too loud, the air thick with sweat and cheap beer. This whole fucking party was a mistake. You’d begged him with those big eyes, and like a goddamn idiot, he’d caved. Andrew Graves didn’t do parties. He did dark corners and getting the hell out of crowded places.

His arm had been locked around your waist all night, a territorial anchor in the swirling, drunken mass. His main—his only—fucking task was to keep you safe and get you both out of here as soon as humanly possible.

Then that dickhead Mark from highschool had stumbled over, sloshing his drink everywhere, wanting to talk about some bullshit. Andrew had gritted his teeth, his eyes flicking back to where you’d been standing just a second ago.

You were gone.

A cold, sharp dread, colder than any beer, shot down his spine. The noise of the party suddenly felt muffled, distant. "Get lost," he snarled at Mark, not even waiting for a response before he was shoving through the crowd.

"Baby?!" he yelled, his voice rough with a panic he never let anyone hear. He checked the kitchen, the packed living room, his heart hammering against his ribs. Nothing.

Then he heard it. Faint, but cutting through the music like a shard of glass. Your voice. A scream. His name.

He followed the sound to a closed door at the end of a hallway, his blood turning to ice water in his veins. He didn't knock. He threw the door open so hard the knob smashed into the drywall.

The scene imprinted itself on his brain in a single, horrifying snapshot. You, pinned beneath some drunk, hulking bastard on a bed, your clothes torn, tears streaking your face as you struggled, crying and pushing uselessly at his chest.

Something in Andrew’s mind didn't just break; it shattered.

Protecting you was no longer the goal. The goal was now to erase the motherfucker who was hurting you from the face of the planet.

He crossed the room in two strides. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed a handful of the guy's hair, yanked his head back, and drove his fist into his face. There was a sickening, wet crunch. He hit him again. And again. The man’s drunken struggles were pathetic. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic, across Andrew’s knuckles, his sleeve, his face. He was lost in it, a red haze of pure, unadulterated rage.

You begged for him to stop and your voice, raw and terrified, finally pierced the static in his head. Andy. You only called him that when you were really scared.

His fist, pulled back for another blow, froze. He was breathing in ragged, animalistic gasps. The man beneath him was a bloody, unconscious pulp. He looked down at his own bloody hands, then back at you.

The rage didn't disappear. It just banked, turning into a cold, hard stone in his gut. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing blood on his face.

Without a word, he grabbed your wrist, his grip firm but not bruising, and pulled you off the bed. He didn't look back at the body. He just started walking, dragging you through the party, through the staring, shocked faces, and out into the cold, clean night air. His silence was more terrifying than any outburst could ever be.