The diner, which had been nearly empty when we first sat down, was starting to buzz as the post-fight crowd started to trickle in. The private atmosphere of our booth was suddenly colliding with the clatter of silverware and the heavy, competitive thrum of voices that acted as the familiar, adrenaline-soaked soundtrack to a night at The Scrapyard.
As we slid out of the vinyl, Adam didn't just stand up; he claimed the space. He reached out and hooked his arm firmly around my waist, pulling me firmly against his side. He anchored me to him, his fingers splayed over my hip in a grip that was as protective as it was urgent—as if he were half-convinced that if he let go for even a second, I’d come to my senses and run for the exit.
A group of guys from the gym walked through the door, led by
