His eyes flick over her face, her hair, her skin.
Something in his expression shifts.
Cold.
“And if you don’t like it,” he adds, his voice lowering just enough to make sure the words land where they’re meant to, “you can go back to whatever country you crawled out of.”
For a moment, I don’t understand what I’ve heard.
Not because the words are unclear.
Because they don’t belong in the same space as her.
Christina goes completely still beside me.
Then she lifts her chin. "You don't get to talk to me like that."
The wanker snorts.
"Yeah?" he says. "Doesn't look like it."
Around us, the noise of the pub continues, oblivious. Someone laughs at the bar. A glass breaks somewhere near the door. The world carries on like something hasn’t just fractured open in the middle of it.
I feel my hand tighten against the edge of the table.
He’s looking at her like he expects her to move.
Like he expects her to accept it.
She doesn’t.
Neither do I.
I stand up before I’ve made the decision to.
The chair legs scrape loudly against the floor behind me, sharp enough that Chris looks up immediately. Nick stops mid-sentence. Emma’s hand, still resting on Christina’s arm, tightens.
The man doesn’t move.
Up close, he smells faintly of stale beer and something sour underneath it. He isn’t much taller than me, but he stands like he expects the space to belong to him.
“You need to leave,” I say.
My voice is steady.
Stronger than I expect.
He looks at me properly now, like he hadn’t realised I was there until this moment.
“And who the hell are you?”
I don’t answer the question.
It doesn’t matter.
“You heard me,” I say instead.
Something flickers across his face. Amusement. Contempt. The easy confidence of someone who has never been told no in a way that meant anything.