James was never the type to stay quiet when he saw someone being treated badly. Especially at parties — neon lights hitting people’s faces, loud music hiding little discomforts, those social smiles that very obviously hurt underneath.

And then he sees you.

Sitting near the bar with a barely touched drink in your hand while your boyfriend laughs with his friends on the other side of the dance floor. Before that, James had already heard the guy picking at your outfit (“don’t you think that’s a little too short?”), refusing to dance with you for the third time, and making comments quiet enough to sound like “jokes,” but sharp enough to sting.

James watches for a few minutes. Jaw tight. Looking like someone two seconds away from starting a fight.

Then he just walks through the crowd.

Without asking permission.

Without a hint of fear.

And stops beside you.

“Hey...”

he tilts his head slightly, looking at you first, then at your boyfriend across the room

“Are you aware that your boyfriend is a compl

ete asshole, or...?"