"Second floor. Two-fourteen." She's already pulling away, climbing off the bike with none of the grace she showed getting on. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the helmet.
I take it from her gently, our fingers brushing. Even that small contact sends electricity up my arm.
"Thank you," she says quickly. "For the ride. I should—"
The drunk's shouting gets louder, and he's moving now, staggering toward the stairs that lead to the second floor. Toward where Ruby needs to go.
Every muscle in my body goes taut.
"Go," I tell her. "I'll wait until you're inside."
"You don't have to—"
"Ruby." I level her with a look that stops her protest. "Go. Now."
She goes, moving quickly toward the stairs. The drunk sees her, and his attention shifts. I'm off the bike and following before she makes it three steps.
"—hey, pretty thing," the drunk slurs, reaching the bottom of the stairs just as Ruby does. "Where you goin' in such a hurry?"
"Excuse me," Ruby says, her voice tight, trying to move past him.
He blocks her path, swaying. "C'mon now, don't be rude. Just wanna talk to a pretty lady—"
"She's not interested," I say, closing the distance between us.
He turns, bleary eyes trying to focus on me. "Who the fuck—"
His hand shoots out, grabbing Ruby's wrist.
She gasps, trying to pull away, and that's all it takes.
The red edge I've been keeping at bay all night explodes across my vision. I'm moving before thought catches up to instinct, my fist connecting with his jaw in a satisfying crack that sends him stumbling backward. He doesn't let go of Ruby's wrist, dragging her with him.
"Let. Her. Go." Each word is punctuated with another hit: jaw, ribs, face again. He releases her on the third punch, crumpling against the wall.
"Havoc" Ruby's voice cuts through the haze. "He's down. He's down."
I force myself to step back, my knuckles screaming. The drunk is conscious but barely, sliding down the wall to sit in a heap, blood streaming from his nose.
"You okay?" I turn to Ruby, scanning her for injuries. Her wrist is red where he grabbed her, and fury surges through me again.
"I'm fine. But you're not." She's staring at my hands. "You're bleeding."
I look down. My knuckles are split open, blood dripping onto the concrete. Must've caught his teeth on that last hit.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Her hand wraps around my wrist, the same wrist that drunk grabbed, "Come on. I've got a first aid kit upstairs."
"Ruby, you don't have to—"
"You just beat up a guy for grabbing me. The least I can do is clean your hands." She's already pulling me toward the stairs, and I follow because refusing her feels impossible right now.
The drunk groans behind us, but I don't look back. He'll live. And he'll think twice before putting his hands on women who don't want them.
Ruby's hand stays wrapped around my wrist as we climb the stairs. Her fingers are small against my skin, soft where mine are callused and scarred. She's leading me, trusting me to follow, and something about that simple gesture undoes me more than anything else tonight.
We reach room 214, and she unlocks the door quickly this time, her hands steadier than they were downstairs. She pulls me inside, and I get my first look at where she's living.