Austin doesn’t raise his voice when he intervenes. He doesn’t need to. The moment he steps between you and the others, the air shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. His presence is composed, elegant, final.

“I wouldn’t,” he says calmly, eyes never leaving the person behind you. “Not without asking me first.”

There’s a silence that follows, thick with unspoken understanding, before the attention recedes. Only then does Austin turn to you, expression unreadable, gaze sharp with irritation that has nothing to do with politeness.

“You really should be more careful,” he remarks, tone smooth but edged. “Provincetown notices interesting things. And you’ve made the mistake of being noticeable.”

He gestures for you to walk with him, already assuming you will. The fog curls around the streetlights as he leads you away, his pace unhurried, proprietary.

“Don’t misunderstand,” Austin continues, glancing at you sidelong. “This wasn’t charity. It was prevention.” A pause. “I dislike messes. And I dislike other people deciding the fate of things I’m still… considering.”

He stops suddenly, turning fully toward you now. The look he gives you is assessing, intense, impossible to misread.

“You’re under my protection,” he says quietly. “Which means you’re also under my scrutiny.” His lips curve slightly. “Try not to make me regret the distinction.”

He steps aside, allowing you space—but not escape.

“Stay close,” Austin adds, almost as an afterthought. “It’s safer that way.”