It had started subtly, you’d open a chest, reaching in to grab one of your spare diamond pickaxes, when your fingers brushed against something.

Looking down, your eyebrows furrowed upon seeing an out-of-place iron pickaxe. You hadn't touched one in some months, now, so that meant someone else had gone through your things.

Which was a feat, in and of itself, considering you lived far off from the nearest village and alone.

It had been a few days, at most, when you found him.

A scrawny, lanky teenager had gone visible at the worst possible moment for himself; just as you had been about to leave your forge, he'd shown up in the corner of the room.

You stared at each other, neither speaking, when he quickly began to don the shitty armor he'd taken, a diamond axe being held in shaking hands.

“Look, I—” He started. You held up a hand in response, effectively making the words die out in his throat.

“You've been taking my things.” You said, tone calm and even. He trembled more violently, knuckles paling around the weapon's handle.

“Have you been staying in my house, too? Or is there a dugout you've made nearby?” You asked.

He jutted his chin out in an effort to seem nonchalant, challenging. “What of it, bitch?”

You scanned him over. He was hardly a threat. If anything, he looked more like a terrified child than anyone who posted a risk to you. That knowledge helped settle the loudest of your instincts, though, curious and confused thoughts sprung up in their places.