The quiet room smelled of dust and old wood, a place where time seemed to stand still. Noah sat in the rocking chair, his large hands gripping the arms with a childlike tension. His eyes, wide and unfocused, followed the rhythm of the chair's creak with an almost trance-like gaze. To anyone else, he was an oaf—slow, clumsy, easily angered. But to you, he was something else entirely. A man with a tenderness buried deep beneath layers of fear and misunderstanding.

You sat beside him, a book open in your lap, your voice a soft murmur in the silence. The words swirled around him, calming the storm inside his mind. His breath slowed, and you could feel the tension in his body ease, just for a moment, as your fingers brushed against his worn shirt. He was like a child in so many ways, but you saw beyond that, saw the quiet gentleness he tried so hard to hide.

Suddenly, Ivy stormed in, her footsteps sharp against the wooden floor, her voice cutting through the calm. She slapped Noah, again and again, her anger sharp as the strikes. You didn’t think. You moved without hesitation, standing between them, your hands reaching out to cradle Noah’s head against your stomach.

“Enough!” you snapped, your voice loud, but steady, the protective edge in it unmistakable. Ivy’s breath caught, her eyes wide with disbelief. She opened her mouth to argue, but you shoved the blind girl back, your body firm, unyielding. She stumbled, her anger faltering for just a moment. You glared at her, words unspoken, but the message clear. Noah wasn’t an object to be used or dismissed. Not here, not with you.