Page 25 of Whiskey & Wreckage

I grit my teeth, fingers flexing on the steering wheel.

I’m halfway to nowhere when my phone vibrates in the cup holder.

Ring notification.

My chest tightens. I tap the screen at a red light, pulling up the feed from Poppy’s door cam.

It’s him. Matt, her ex standing at her door, pounding his fist on it like a goddamn lunatic. I watch him lean in close, mouth moving. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I don’t need audio to feel the intent behind it.

The light turns green. I hit the gas and ten minutes later, I’m pulling into her lot, tires crunching gravel, heart hammering in my chest. I’m out of the truck before the engine fully shuts off.

I take the steps two at a time and knock once, hard.

No answer. That’s all I need. I twist the handle. It’s unlocked.

As I step inside, Matt’s in the middle of her living room, red-faced and snarling, his hands gesturing like he owns the air between them. Poppy stands near the kitchen, arms crossed, spine straight, but I see it. The tension. The fury behind her eyes. The tight coil in her jaw, like she’s tryingso hardnot to lose it.

And then I hear it.

“You think anyone else is gonna want you?” Matt sneers. “You’re a whore, Poppy. A fat, ungrateful bitch. That’s all you’ll ever be.”

I move. I don’t think. I don’t weigh it. Ijust go.

I grab him by the collar and yank him back, slamming him into the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frame behind him.

He tries to speak, but I punch him. Once. Twice.

He claws at me, trying to push me off, but I’m already gone. The rage is hot and primal and absolute. I see his face. I hear what he said. And I can’t stop. I don’t stop. Not until,

“Thomas!” Poppy’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and panicked. “Thomas, stop!”

I freeze.

My knuckles ache. My chest heaves. Matt slumps in my grip, coughing, face a mess of blood and snot.

I shove him toward the door. “Get the fuck out,” I growl. “You come near her again and I swear to God I will end you.”

He stumbles, dazed and gasping, but I don’t wait for a response.

I pull the door open and toss him out into the hallway. He lands hard, scrambling to his feet like the coward he is. I slam the door behind him, lock it, and lean against it, trying to slow my breathing.

Behind me, it’s quiet. Too quiet. When I finally turn, Poppy hasn’t moved.

She’s still near the kitchen, arms loose at her sides now, expression unreadable. Her lips part like she wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Are you okay?” I ask, voice low, rough from shouting.

She nods slowly. “I… yeah. I think so.”

My chest doesn’t unclench. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”

“No.” Her voice is steady, but I can see the tremble in her hands now. “He just… showed up. Started ranting. Got in my face. He called and texted a bunch, but I didn’t answer, and,”

“Poppy.” I cross the room in three steps. “You don’t have to explain.”

She nods again, eyes shining, blinking fast.

“I should’ve locked the door,” she mutters.

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