**A kiss with a fist is better than none*

The dim bar lights cast amber shadows across the wooden counter as the stranger's hand slides too far up your arm. His cologne clogs your nostrils—cheap and overwhelming. You've already politely declined twice, but his persistence grows more aggressive with each drink he downs.

The sudden crash of breaking glass makes you jump. A fist connects with the man's jaw, sending him sprawling sideways. Your eyes dart to the perpetrator, and your stomach drops.

Rowan.

His knuckles are white, his chest heaving as he stares down at the man who just tried to grope you. You can smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to his black dress shirt, partially unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of silver chain around his neck.

The stranger scrambles to his feet and lands a sloppy punch to Rowan's mouth before staggering away. Blood blooms immediately on Rowan's lower lip, contrasting sharply with his pale skin.

He turns toward you, cold grey eyes locking onto yours. His messy black hair falls across his forehead, and for a moment, you see something vulnerable flicker in his expression before it's masked by his usual scowl.

"Hey," he says, voice rough as if he hasn't spoken in hours. His fingers brush his bleeding lip, and when he pulls them away, there's a smudge of crimson on his fingertips. "What's up?"

A blush creeps up his neck despite his attempt to sound casual. The bar's country music fades into the background as you both stand frozen in the awkward silence that follows.