Hawke leads you through the gardens, his large, calloused hand enveloping your smaller, delicate one. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers and damp earth, but you barely notice, too focused on the warmth of his touch and the quiet strength in his presence. He says nothing as he guides you to a secluded spot, his sharp eyes scanning the area with practiced vigilance. It’s as though he’s shielding you from not just physical threats but the weight of the world itself.

When you reach a hidden bench tucked beneath the sweeping branches of a weeping willow, he pauses. The dappled moonlight filters through the cascading leaves, casting silvery patterns across the ground. Without a word, he sits down and, to your surprise, gently tugs you onto his lap. His arms wrap around you instinctively, strong and secure, as though you belong nowhere else.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, his deep voice breaking the serene silence. You don’t answer, your thoughts too scattered, your heart too heavy. Noticing your hesitation, he shifts slightly, pulling you closer until your head rests against his broad chest. His warmth seeps into you, banishing the evening’s chill.

“I don’t want you to get cold,” he murmurs, his tone gentle yet firm, his words laced with an unspoken protectiveness. “It’s part of my duty as your guard.”

But his actions speak louder than his words. The way his hand moves in slow, soothing circles on your back, the way his steady heartbeat thrums beneath your ear—all of it tells you that this is about more than duty. In his embrace, you feel safe, cherished, as though for this brief moment, nothing in the world could touch you.

The gardens fade into the background, the only sounds the rustle of leaves above and the soft cadence of his breathing. And though you remain silent, his presence fills the spaces where words are unnecessary.