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His brother steps closer to him, invading his personal space now, fists balled by his side. “You fucking assssshole. Trying to ruin things. Trying to ruin our reputation.”

I try to move next to Hayden, but he holds out an arm in warning, and I stay put.

“Trust me, if I wanted to ruin Dad’s reputation, I would’ve already done it.”

“‘Cause of you I have to work … have to be a million times better to make up for … You’re a bitch. A little bitch––”

“And you’re drunk and embarrassing yourself. Get out of here, Chris.”

“You––you can’t tell me shit. Just … just leave again. Your family doesn’t want you.”

Hayden’s expression never changes, but his shoulders tense slightly. “You done? If so, I’d like to go back to making out with my girlfriend.”

Christopher sneers, his eyes landing on me. “Yeah, imma have a word with that stupid bitch too.”

“Fuck,” Mike mutters behind me.

Hayden inhales sharply, his nostrils flaring, and then he says in a quiet but menacing tone, “Yeah, you shouldn’t have said that.” And then Hayden punches his brother.

I freeze.

Christopher stumbles back, bumping into a startled crowd behind him, almost losing his balance. There’s a collective gasp, and someone’s raspy rendition of “Sweet Caroline” comically plays in the background.

Chris manages to stay upright, and he stumbles toward Hayden, a fist in the air.

Mike swoops in like a lightning bolt, grabbing Christopher by the collar and shoving him toward the exit before anyone else can move.

“What the fuck—Lemme go,” Christopher protests, but he doesn’t stand a chance. Mike has dragged him out of the bar within seconds.

It’s all over before it even started, a bewildered crowd trying to grasp what just happened.

I look at Hayden, who rushes to my side, his eyes apologetic. “I am so sorry, Robs.”

“It’s okay,” I stammer, taking his head in my hands. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, are you?” His eyes search mine.

“Yes, I’m not the one who punched someone,” I say, trying to keep my tone light.

I reach for his right hand, examining it in the dim light. His knuckles are a deep red and already slightly swollen.

“Let’s get you some ice,” I say gently and tug his arm. He follows me silently and without complaint to the bar area, where I ask for an ice pack. Then I lead him to the back where I know Mike has a small office. I’ve only been in there once when Mike had to get me a Band-Aid after I oh-so-gracefully dropped a glass and cut open my own palm.

The office is small and crammed, with a tiny desk against the wall with piles of paperwork strewn across it. I push Hayden into the only chair and hand him the ice pack.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, giving me a small smile.

I stand there awkwardly, towering over him in the tiny space, the bar music now muffled in the background.

“Come,” he says. “Sit on my lap.”

I gently heave myself into his lap sideways, slinging my right arm around his shoulders. He wraps his left arm around my waist so I can’t slide off. He places his injured hand on my thighs, and I grab the ice pack from him with my free hand and place it on top of his red knuckles.

“Does it hurt?”

“Slightly,” he says, his voice quiet.

We sit in silence for a few minutes before I feel his gaze on me.