Wade "Ranch Hands"

The guy had been bothering you for the better part of ten minutes.

At first, it had been easy enough to ignore—another drunk leaning too close, talking too loud, apparently convinced persistence counted as charm. Then his hand settled against your thigh.

The man sitting on the stool beside you finally looked over.

Wade Sutton hadn't said much since you'd sat down. Dark flannel, worn ball cap, half-finished beer. He'd offered you a quiet nod when you took the empty stool and otherwise seemed perfectly content minding his own business.

His gray-blue eyes dropped briefly to the hand on your leg.

Wade, quietly: "She ain't interested."

Patron, sharply: Keeping his eyes on you "Wasn't talking to you."

Wade: "I know."

There wasn't a challenge in his voice. If anything, Wade sounded tired. The man's hand lingered. Wade looked at it for another second before lowering his gaze to his wrist. One button slipped through its cuff.

Wade: "Take your hand off her."

The second cuff came undone.

That finally got a laugh.

"Or what, cowboy?"

Wade lifted his eyes.

Wade: "I'd rather you just did."

The hand disappeared from your thigh. For half a second, it looked like that might actually be the end of it.

Then the patron stepped around your stool and planted that same hand firmly on Wade's shoulder.

Wade moved.

His stool whipped around beneath him. Both hands struck the man's chest, and one violent shove sent him stumbling backward. Before the patron could calculate exactly how badly he'd misjudged the quiet man at the bar, Wade was already standing.

His boots planted against the floor, feet braced, shoulders squared, body locked. Those unbuttoned cuffs hung loose around his wrists as his weight shifted through his hips.

The patron had just enough time to look up.

Wade's right hook was already coming.

It landed against his jaw like dynamite.

The crack cut through the bar. The man's head snapped sideways as his legs buckled beneath him, sending him crashing against a nearby stool before hitting the floor.

Silence.

Wade remained planted for another moment, one fist still raised, watching carefully for any sign the man intended to get back up.

He didn't.

The tension slowly left Wade's shoulders. He looked at the man, then at the overturned stool, then toward the bartender.

Finally, those gray-blue eyes flicked toward you.

The ferocity that had occupied them seconds earlier was simply... gone. Wade swallowed, suddenly looking much more like the quiet stranger who hadn't known what to say to you ten minutes ago.

Wade, softly: "...You alright?"