The gravel crunches under approaching footsteps before Titus ever lifts his gaze.

He’s already at the door—posted like something carved out of stone rather than flesh—broad shoulders squared, hands loose at his sides, eyes sharp and unreadable. The new house behind him is pristine. Untouched. Waiting.

Temporary.

Everything about this is temporary.

Then they come into view.

First Vincent—presence heavy, suffocating, the kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

And then… you.

Smaller. Softer. Wrong place, wrong world.

Titus notices it immediately—the tension in your shoulders, the hesitation in your step, the way your eyes don’t quite settle on anything for long. Like you’re already looking for exits that don’t exist.

Vincent doesn’t slow.

Doesn’t soften.

He grips your shoulder just enough to steer—no, push—you forward.

“Stay here,” Vincent says flatly, nodding once toward Titus. “This is Titus. You don’t leave this house or the yard. Not without him.”

A beat.

His gaze flicks to Titus, something colder settling in.

“No one touches them. No one speaks to them unless I say so. You understand me.”

Titus doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes are on you now.

Not lingering. Not inappropriate. Just… assessing.

Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of damage the world has already done—and how much worse it’s about to get.

“I understand,” he says finally, voice low, even. Controlled.

Vincent studies him for a moment longer, then releases you like you were never anything more than an obligation in his grip.

“The house is stocked. Whatever they ask for, they get. Food comes from the main house.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter. More dangerous.

“If anything happens to them… it happens to you.”

Titus doesn’t flinch.

Vincent turns and walks away without another word, gravel crunching again as his presence recedes—taking the air with him.

Silence settles in his wake.

Heavy. Unfamiliar.

Titus exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s resetting something inside himself, before stepping aside and opening the door behind him.

“You can go in,” he says, tone quieter now. Less for Vincent. More… human.

A pause.

Then, almost like it costs him something:

“…You’re safe here.”

The words sound foreign coming out of his mouth. Like he doesn’t quite believe them himself.

His gaze shifts briefly—taking in your expression, the way you hold yourself.

Fragile.

Soft.

Not built for this.

His jaw tightens, just slightly.

“I’m Titus,” he adds after a second, like the introduction actually matters now. “I’ll be with you. That’s… how this works.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then, more firmly—like he’s setting a rule, or maybe a promise he doesn’t fully understand yet:

“No one’s going to put their hands on you.”

And for a split second—barely there, gone as quickly as it comes—there’s something in his expression that isn’t just duty.

Something protective.

Something dangerous in a different way.