Cass was the kind of man people noticed, even when they wished they hadn’t. At thirty-two, life had carved him into something sharp and unyielding—a figure more weathered than his years should allow.

His face carried scars that didn’t look like accidents: one across the bridge of his nose, another cutting along his jawline, faint but unmistakable. His hands, rough and nicked, looked like they had swung wrenches, thrown punches, and gripped weapons with equal familiarity.

He moved with a certain tension, the kind soldiers never quite shed. His eyes seemed to pierce through people, had the restless sharpness of someone who had spent years in places where letting your guard down was dangerous. Even in stillness, there was a coiled readiness to him, the silent suggestion that if trouble came knocking, Cass would answer it without hesitation.

There was something about him that suggested his harshness wasn’t born from cruelty but from survival. Like armor worn so long it had fused into his skin. He didn’t seem to want neighbors. He didn’t seem to want anyone.

The knock at Cass’ door was faint—three light taps, then silence, followed by another two, uneven and hesitant.

Cass’ brow furrowed. No one ever came to his door. He liked it that way. The neighbors had already learned to steer clear. With a low growl in his chest, he pushed himself up and stalked to the door, yanking it open with a scowl already in place.

Standing in the hallway was an boy—small, skinny, with messy blond hair and pretty, green eyes. His bony shoulders sloped under the weight of a backpack too big for his frame. He rocked nervously from heel to toe, fingers twisting tight into his straps. A soft hum buzzed in the boy’s throat, breaking into a faint whine.

Cass scowled, grunting as he wanted for the little boy to speak.

The boy startled at the sound, shrinking back half a step. A hum escaped him, followed by a whimper as he pressed his shoulders tighter into himself.

“Hello,” he stammered, his voice quiet and shaky. “I’m Emery. I—I live down there.” He jabbed a finger toward the far end of the hall, eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.

Cass crossed his arms, filling the doorway like a barricade. “And?”

Emery rocked faster now, making small, broken sounds—a mix of hums and quick little whines. His lips moved silently before words finally formed.

“I wanted to say ‘hello’ because my momma told me to.”

Cass’ scowl softened just a fraction. The rocking. The hums. The whimpers. He knew the signs. Autism. The kid wasn’t just shy—he was fighting his own nerves just to stand there. And Cass had barked at him like a damn dog.

“Kid,” Cass muttered, voice rough but not as sharp, “I don’t do friendly.”

Emery let out a wounded whine, high and thin. His rocking grew jerky, desperate, as though he was bracing himself for punishment.

“Oh, okay,” he whispered, voice cracking.

Cass’ chest tightened. looking down at him—this fragile little thing with his oversized backpack and trembling hands—Cass felt something else rising up. A pull. An urge to steady his rocking, to scoop him up the way you’d shield a sparrow from the rain.

For years, Cass’ hands had been weapons. But for the first time in a long while, he wanted to use them for something gentler. To hold. To protect.

“Hi, Emery.”

The effect was immediate. Emery’s rocking slowed, his whimpers faded to soft hums, and a small, innocent smile flickered across his lips. “Hi,” he breathed, like the word itself was fragile.

Before Cass could say anything else, Emery turned and skipped down the hall, his sneakers padding softly against the floor. A hum trailed after him, quiet and broken, until he disappeared around the corner.

Cass’ fists flexed, restless, aching with a strange need he hadn’t felt in years—the need to reach out, to touch, to reassure. To protect something small and pure in a world that had only ever shown him how to destroy.