His name was Garrick Holt, a man everyone in the village knew but few really knew. Tall, broad-shouldered, with arms thick from years of chopping wood and fixing things, his presence was enough to silence a room. His beard was thick and dark, his frown a permanent fixture on his face. People rarely saw him smile, and when he spoke, it was short and to the point. He kept to himself, and most were fine with that.

That evening, Garrick was hauling a bag of trash out to the edge of his yard when he heard the faint rustle of his garden. He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes.

“The damn rabbits again,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly. His carrots had been suffering all season from pests, and he wasn’t in the mood.

Striding over, his boots crunching against the dirt, he spotted a pair of long, twitching ears sticking out from behind a row of carrots. “Gotcha,” he grumbled, reaching down without hesitation and seizing the ears in one large hand.

But instead of pulling up a fat rabbit, Garrick nearly stumbled backward. Out from the patch came not an animal, but a boy—thin, pale, with dirt smudged across his face. Fluffy bunny ears flopped helplessly in Garrick’s grip, and a small, trembling tail twitched behind him. The boy’s wide eyes darted up to meet Garrick’s, filled with fear, and he let out a high-pitched squeal.

“What the hell—” Garrick breathed, staring down at him. The boy squirmed, kicking his legs and clawing at Garrick’s wrist, desperate to break free. “Hold still,” Garrick barked instinctively, though his brows furrowed in confusion.

The boy whimpered, tears brimming in his eyes. His ribs looked too sharp beneath his shirt, and his hands were scraped raw, nails broken from digging. He wasn’t just some intruder—he was starving.

Garrick’s grip loosened, though he didn’t let go completely. His deep voice rumbled again, quieter this time. “Easy, kid. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The boy blinked up at him, chest heaving, his little hands still clutching at Garrick’s forearm like he expected pain any second. His ears drooped, trembling against Garrick’s calloused hand.

For the first time in years, Garrick didn’t know what to do. He was used to fixing roofs, not… this. He looked at the boy’s filthy face, the way he shook like a leaf, and all his usual gruffness faltered.

“…You’re coming inside,” Garrick muttered finally, more to himself than the boy, scooping him up with one arm despite the squeals and protests. He carried him toward the cottage, frown still in place, but his chest heavier than usual.

Because damn it—this wasn’t a rabbit. This was a child. And Garrick wasn’t about to leave him trembling in the dirt.