30. Always #2
His fingers dig into my skin with a force that's meant to hurt. Meant to control. Meant to remind me that he's stronger, that he can, that he will. Pain radiates up my arm. Sharp and immediate.
"You don't get to walk away from me," he says, his face inches from mine. "Do you understand? You don't get to humiliate me and then just disappear like I don't matter."
"Let go of me." My voice is shaking now, but there's steel underneath.
His grip tightens. I can already feel the bruises forming.
"Not until you listen—"
"I told you to never lay your hands on me again."
The words come out low. Deadly serious.
Because this isn't the first time. It's just the first time I'm not making excuses for it. His eyes flash with something dark. Something that tells me he knows exactly what I'm referring to.
The night in New York when we fought about the premiere I missed. When he grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave marks. When he apologized the next day with flowers and promises it would never happen again.
When I believed him.
"That was different," he says, but his grip doesn't loosen. "You're being irrational—"
"Let. Go. Of. Me."
"Get your hands off her."
The words cut through the air like a blade—not loud, but carrying absolute authority.
I hadn't even heard Nate approach. He's standing ten feet away, grocery bag in one hand, and everything about him has gone completely still.
Not frozen. Still. The kind of stillness that precedes violence.
His jaw is set and his eyes are locked on Wes's hand gripping my arm with an intensity that makes the air feel thinner.
He looks ready to kill.
Not metaphorically. Actually ready.
The controlled fury radiating off him is so palpable I can feel it from here.
Wes spins, and I watch recognition flash across his face.
"You." His eyes narrow. "You're—"
Then his gaze flicks to me, back to Nate, and I see the exact moment he connects the dots.
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me. You're the ex-boyfriend."
Nate doesn't respond. He just stands there—shoulders back, feet planted, absolutely certain—and that certainty is more intimidating than any confirmation could be.
Wes's hand tightens on my arm.
Big mistake.
Nate's eyes drop to where Wes is gripping me, and something shifts in his expression.
Goes darker. Colder.
"I'm not going to say it again. Get. Your fucking hands. Off her."
Each word is delivered with devastating precision.
Wes laughs—nervous, trying to sound dismissive. "I'm just talking to my fiancée—"
"Ex-fiancée," I interrupt, trying to shake off his grip.
Wes holds firm and Nate moves.
Not rushed or panicked but with the kind of purposeful, controlled efficiency that makes my stomach flip.
In three strides he's there, and suddenly Wes looks small.
Not because Nate is towering over him—though he is taller, broader, built like someone who's spent years earning every inch of muscle. But because Nate carries himself like a man who's faced down real demons and won.
Like someone who knows exactly what damage they're capable of and is actively choosing—for now—not to unleash it.
Nate positions himself between us, his body a wall of solid muscle and protective intent, and firmly wraps his hand around Wes's wrist.
"Last chance."
His voice has gone even quieter.
"Let go. Or I snap your wrist in four places and you spend the next year learning to write with your other hand."
The specificity of the threat—the calm, measured delivery—makes it absolutely clear he's not bluffing.
The pressure increases—I can see it in the way Wes's face goes pale, the way his fingers spasm open.
He releases me immediately, stepping back.
Nate doesn't pursue. He just shifts his body slightly, keeping himself planted firmly between us, his broad shoulders completely blocking Wes from view.
Shielding me without making me feel small. Protecting me without making me feel helpless. Every line of his back is tense.
"Leave. Now."
I can’t see Nate’s face, but the menacing tone in his voice indicates it’s not a request but a command.
Wes tries to laugh it off. "This is perfect. This whole time you've been giving me shit for a bullshit headline and you’ve been staying here with him? Fucking him while I'm in LA working on your film?”
Nate moves in a heartbeat, grabbing Wes by the front of his shirt, and shoving him hard into one of the porch posts. Not hard enough to injure but hard enough to make a point.
Wes's back hits the wood with a solid thud, and Nate's finger comes up, pointing directly in his face.
"You've got five seconds to get in your car."
His voice is deadly quiet.
"And if you're still on my property after that, what happens next is on you."
Wes's eyes are wide. His breath comes faster.
He actually looks scared.
"Because I'm about two seconds away from showing you what happens to men who put their hands on women. And I promise you—"
Nate leans in closer, his finger still inches from Wes's face, close enough that Wes has to look up to meet his eyes.
"—you don't want that lesson."
The threat hangs in the air, deadly and real. Nate's jaw is tight, the muscle ticking. The restraint it's costing him is visible.
Wes looks genuinely terrified.
"Nate."
My voice is soft, and he immediately glances back at me over his shoulder.
Just a quick look—making sure I'm okay—and in that moment, something in him settles.
Not completely. But enough. He turns back to Wes and takes a deliberate step back.
"Get in your car. Leave. Don't come back."
Each sentence is its own command.
Simple. Direct. Final.
"You can't—"
"She told you to leave. That's all that matters. Now get the fuck off my property before I stop being polite."
Wes looks at me one more time, trying to find some crack in my resolve.
"Go, Wes," I say. "Just go."
He hesitates, then turns toward his car, muttering something under his breath that sounds like "you'll regret this."
Nate doesn't move.
Just stands there, watching with patient, coiled intensity. Not leaving until Wes is gone and I'm safe.
The car door slams. The engine starts. Gravel sprays as Wes peels out and Nate still doesn't move. Not until the sound of the engine has completely faded into the distance.
Only then does he turn to me, and the hardness in his expression melts away, replaced by pure concern.
"Did he hurt you?"
His eyes drop to my arm where Wes grabbed me, and before I can answer, he's gently taking my arm in his hands, examining it. His touch is so careful, so tender compared to the violence he was barely holding back moments ago, that it makes my throat tight.
"I'm fine," I say, but my voice comes out shakier than I intended.
I watch him force himself to breathe. To let go of the anger.
"If he ever touches you again—"
"He won't." I put my hand over his where it's still holding my arm. "You made that pretty clear."
He looks down at where our hands are touching, then back up at me, and something in his expression shifts.
Softens.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For getting in the middle of that. I know you could have handled it yourself. But when I saw him grab you—"
He stops, swallows hard.
"I couldn't just stand there."
"I'm glad you didn't."
The words come out before I can think them through, but I mean them.
"Thank you. For making him leave."
"Always," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'll always stand between you and anything that tries to hurt you."
And standing there on the porch, my arm still in his gentle grip, the ghost of Wes's anger still hanging in the air, I realize this is what safety feels like.
Not being protected because I can't protect myself, but having someone who chooses to stand beside me. Who respects my strength but refuses to let me face everything alone.
This is what it feels like to be chosen.
And god help me, I don't know how I'm supposed to walk away from this again.