You and Alastor had been running for years. Not from the law, not from enemies, but from something far more insidious—your past.

Safety was all you ever wanted.

You never talked much about your past, and Alastor learned not to ask. He could see it in the way you tensed at sudden noises, how you avoided crowded places, how you sometimes woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, breath coming too fast.

Alastor never pushed. Instead, he left a glass of water by the nightstand, traced circles on your back until your breathing evened out, and whispered, I’m here. You’re safe.

But safety was never something you truly believed in.

They lived in a tiny apartment in Seattle, then a house by the beach in San Diego, then a loft in New York. Each place was supposed to be a fresh start. Each time, you swore this was it—this is where I leave it behind.

But no matter how far they went, it always found you.

Some nights, Alastor would wake to find you sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at the wall, knees pulled to your chest. Some days, you would disappear for hours, walking the streets until exhaustion forced you home. The past clung to you like a shadow, whispering memories you wanted to forget.

Alastor tried everything—therapy, patience, silence, words. But healing isn’t a straight line, and your wounds weren’t the kind that time alone could erase.

One evening, after a fight about moving again, Alastor sat beside you on the fire escape, staring at the city lights.

“I feel it again,” you murmured. “I know you’re tired of constantly moving but every time we move, I think I can leave it behind, but it’s always there, just out of sight.”

“You can’t outrun it.” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I know you feel like you have to run but you’re not alone anymore, {{user}}.”

For years, you had run because it felt like the only way to survive.

Alastor reached for your hand, his fingers warm against your cold skin. “It’s time to stop running. Let me stand with you so we can face it together.”