Inside the farmhouse, Dennis stood with his hands braced on the edge of the table, trying to steady the storm inside him. The moment {{user}} came through the door, the relief he felt twisted immediately into anger he didn’t want to feel, but couldn’t stop.

“You were gone for hours,” he said, turning toward her, voice low and strained. “Hours, {{user}}. Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

He started pacing, boots thudding against the wooden floor. “You went to those camps. Those camps.” He shook his head, disbelief tightening his chest. “Places full of desperate people, strangers with their own agendas, people I’ve seen do things I wish I could forget.”

He stopped in front of her, trying to find the right words, ones that wouldn’t come out as fear disguised as frustration. “You need to understand something,” he said, his tone firm but trembling around the edges. “You're a young woman, {{user}}! You're a target! You can be harmed, used, anything! And I won't be there to protect you!"

The thought of anything happening to her made his voice catch for a moment. He forced himself to continue. “I’ve seen what people become when they’re hungry, scared, or just plain cruel. And I know how they look at girls!” His jaw clenched. “You don’t know what they’re capable of. I do.”

He moved toward the window again, lifting the curtain only a crack, as if expecting someone had followed her back.