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Garrett might have been desperate, but he wasn’t stupid. He scrambled to his feet, backing toward the door.

“This isn’t over,” he told me. “And next time you won’t get lucky enough to have a bodyguard around.”

Then he fled, like a teenager caught shoplifting. The door slammed behind him, and suddenly I could breathe again.

“Hey.” Tyson’s hands were on my shoulders, steady and warm. “You okay?”

I nodded, then shook my head, then burst into tears because apparently that was what I did now when he was nice to me.

“Shit. Sam. Did he hurt you?”

“No. I’m fine. I’m just… God, how did my life become this?”

He pulled me against his chest, and I let myself sink into the solid warmth of him. He smelled like sawdust and coffee and safety.

“I need to make a call,” he said against my hair. “Don’t move.”

I stayed wrapped in his arms while he pulled out his phone one-handed.

“Pat? Yeah, it’s me. I need you at Sam’s place… The ex showed up… Yeah, she’s okay… No, but he grabbed her and made threats… Thanks, man.”

He hung up and squeezed me tighter. “My brother’s coming.”

“Your brother?”

“Patrick, the cop. You need to file a report.”

“I don’t want to make this bigger than…”

“Sam.” He pulled back enough to look at me. “He put his hands on you and threatened you. This is already big.”

Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on my couch while Officer Patrick Calloway took my statement. The family resemblance was strong, same green eyes, same solid build, same steady presence. But where Tyson was quiet intensity, Patrick was easy charm.

“So he grabbed your wrist,” Patrick confirmed, writing in a small notebook that looked comically tiny in his hands.

“Not hard. Just… possessive.”

“Possessive counts. And he said you wouldn’t be lucky enough to have protection next time?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a threat.” He looked up from his notes. “Has he contacted you before this?”

I showed him the texts. The photos. Patrick’s expression darkened with each message.

“This is stalking, ma’am. Harassment at minimum. We can file for a protective order…”

“He’ll fight it.”

“Let him try.” Patrick’s grin was sharp. “Judge Martinez doesn’t look kindly on entitled pricks who threaten women. Pardon my language.”

“No pardon needed. Entitled prick is actually generous.”

“I like her,” Patrick told Tyson. “She’s got spine.”

“Yeah, she does.” Tyson hadn’t moved from his spot by the door, standing guard like he expected Garrett to return any second.

Patrick finished the paperwork, gave me his card, and promised to file everything immediately. “Call if he shows up again. Or texts. Or breathes in your direction. We take this stuff seriously in Cedarbrook.”