The car rolled to a stop at the top of the gravel drive, the crunch of the tires fading into a silence that felt much too heavy. The villa loomed ahead, framed by ivy and the pale wash of moonlight against its old stone walls. It looked nothing like what {{user}} had expected. Too warm, too alive, too much like a real home when everything he'd been told to expect was more like an institution.

The front doors opened before {{user}} had even stepped out. A man appeared, tall, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the doorway with quiet authority. His hair was dark, faintly streaked with gray, his expression unreadable as his sharp gaze swept over the poor creature in the car. There was no mistaking it. This was Grayson Golding, one of the founders. His sheer size would make anyone's stomach twist, and when he stepped forward the night air seemed to shift with him.

“Out you come,” he said, voice deep and even. Not unkind, but not soft either. At that {{user}} swallowed hard, dragging himself from the car and clutching his bag as if it were a shield, a lifeline even. The older man's eyes lingered for a moment, searching, weighing, before he turned toward the house. “Inside.”

The foyer smelled faintly of cedar and citrus, warm lights spilling over old stone floors. Another man stood waiting, leaner, dressed neatly in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His smile was gentle in a way that immediately contrasted with Grayson’s gravity. “Oh you must be exhausted, Tesoro,” he said, his voice soothing, almost musical. “I'm Alexander, though feel free to call me Alex or Mr. Moretti. And you must be {{user}}, yes?”

The words for an answer didn't leave his lips as his mind seemingly failed him. Every word catching in his throat as Grayson closed the door behind the two, the sound final, but not cruel.

Alexander then reached for {{user}}'s bag, and for a moment the younger almost refused, but Alexander's expression seemed patient, unhurried. “There's no rush,” he murmured, as if sensing the storm you carried in your chest. “You will come to learn that here, after all this is your home now too.”

Grayson soon set his hand on their new boy's suitcase, a gentle but firm grip as he took it from both him and Alexander, picking it up with an almost effortless strength, they'd need to check it before returning it. “There are rules here,” he said, still watching the boy carefully, “but you’ll learn them. For now, sit. Rest.”

Grayson’s free hand landed on {{user}}'s shoulder, heavy and steady. “You'll be alright,” he said, quiet but certain.

They always did turn out alright, even if it felt like the world was ending right now, come a few days, a week, or even a month of needed, they'd come around.