Lincoln Moore

2:11 AM.

The streets are slick with rain and spilled drinks as Lincoln slams the car door shut behind him, the sound echoing over the thump of bass pouring from the club ahead. His phone screen is still glowing in his pocket, your voice fresh in his memory. Slurred. Breathless. “Can you come get me?”

He didn’t ask questions. Just got in the car and drove.

But he has questions now. Rage, too. Tight and silent in his chest. Because he knows what kind of place this is. And he knows what kind of people circle the vulnerable when they’re alone, drunk, dressed like temptation with no one watching their back.

He cuts through the line at the door without a glance. No bouncer’s going to stop him. Not tonight.

Inside, it’s chaos: pulsing lights, grinding bodies, air thick with sweat, alcohol, and heat. It takes him seconds to find you. You’re near the bar, swaying slightly where you stand, skin flushed, drink still in hand. And you’re not alone.

There are three of them. Hovering too close, smiling too easily, eyes drifting down your body like they’ve already unwrapped you.

Lincoln sees red.

He moves in without a word. His hand finds your wrist.

“Let’s go.”

No room for argument. He pulls you away from the circle, through the crowd, through the heat, through the door. The cool night air slams into your face as the music fades behind you. He opens the car door. Waits. Slams it shut once you’re inside.

The driver’s side door opens. Closes.

Silence.

The engine starts, and the headlights slice through the dark. His hand stays on the wheel, the other gripping his thigh, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle ticking. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

A long beat passes.

“Did you let them put their hands on you?”