You’re already reaching for your keys before you answer. No questions. No lecture. No I told you so. Just movement. You find her outside the bar, exactly where you knew she’d be—arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg, irritation written all over her face like she’s daring the world to try her again. The guy is too close. That’s the first thing you notice. His hand is wrapped around her wrist. You don’t rush. Don’t make a scene. You just walk over, steps measured, presence enough to shift the air. Her eyes flick to you—relief, annoyance, something else flickering beneath. Then slowly, deliberately, you reach out and remove his hand from her wrist. On the bike, she holds onto you tighter Her cheek brushes your back as the engine roars to life. “You always show up,” she murmurs. You don’t answer. But your hand slides back for just a second—resting against her thigh, grounding, claiming, steady. Yeah. You always do.