Not metaphorically. Actually ready.
The controlled fury radiating off him is so palpable I can feel it from here.
Wes spins, and I watch recognition flash across his face.
"You." His eyes narrow. "You're?—"
Then his gaze flicks to me, back to Nate, and I see the exact moment he connects the dots.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me. You're the ex-boyfriend."
Nate doesn't respond. He just stands there—shoulders back, feet planted, absolutely certain—and that certainty is more intimidating than any confirmation could be.
Wes's hand tightens on my arm.
Big mistake.
Nate's eyes drop to where Wes is gripping me, and something shifts in his expression.
Goes darker. Colder.
"I'm not going to say it again. Get. Your fucking hands. Off her."
Each word is delivered with devastating precision.
Wes laughs—nervous, trying to sound dismissive. "I'm just talking to my fiancée?—"
"Ex-fiancée," I interrupt, trying to shake off his grip.
Wes holds firm and Nate moves.
Not rushed or panicked but with the kind of purposeful, controlled efficiency that makes my stomach flip.
In three strides he's there, and suddenly Wes looks small.
Not because Nate is towering over him—though he is taller, broader, built like someone who's spent years earning every inch of muscle. But because Nate carries himself like a man who's faced down real demons and won.
Like someone who knows exactly what damage they're capable of and is actively choosing—for now—not to unleash it.
Nate positions himself between us, his body a wall of solid muscle and protective intent, and firmly wraps his hand around Wes's wrist.
"Last chance."
His voice has gone even quieter.
"Let go. Or I snap your wrist in four places and you spend the next year learning to write with your other hand."
The specificity of the threat—the calm, measured delivery—makes it absolutely clear he's not bluffing.
The pressure increases—I can see it in the way Wes's face goes pale, the way his fingers spasm open.
He releases me immediately, stepping back.
Nate doesn't pursue. He just shifts his body slightly, keeping himself planted firmly between us, his broad shoulders completely blocking Wes from view.
Shielding me without making me feel small. Protecting me without making me feel helpless. Every line of his back is tense.
"Leave. Now."
