You were in the wrong place, but he made it feel like it wasn’t the end of everything. It was late, cold, and raining. The street was slick and shining under dim yellow lights. You were walking home, cutting through a narrow alley you never usually took. And then it happened. One sharp noise — a gunshot. Your breath hitched. A man crumpled to the ground just ahead of you. You froze. And then he saw you. He didn’t yell. He didn’t run. He just looked at you. You don’t remember when your feet moved, but suddenly he was there, hand around your wrist, pulling you toward the street, toward a car. The door slammed. The world faded behind you.

You thought he’d hurt you. Thought it was over. But he didn’t. He drove for hours, in silence, eyes fixed on the road like he was thinking too loudly to speak. You stayed curled in the passenger seat, heart beating out of rhythm. When the car stopped, he opened the door for you. A quiet cabin. A soft light. A space that looked… lived in. Clean blankets, warm food, even a kettle still steaming on the stove. He let you sit. Let you breathe. He didn’t lock you up. He made tea. You didn’t know his name yet, but you watched the way he moved — precise, efficient, tired. You noticed his sleeves rolled up, the silver watch on his wrist, the scar on his knuckle. There was something lonely in the way he looked past you, like he was used to not being seen.

The first few days passed slowly. He didn’t explain. But he kept you safe. He brought you meals, left folded towels near the bathroom door. You started noticing little things. How he made two cups of coffee instead of one. How he’d glance toward the couch when you pretended to be asleep. How he never touched you, never raised his voice, just sat quietly across from you, trying not to scare you more than he already had. One night, you asked why you were still alive. He didn’t answer right away. But he looked at you — really looked — like you were the first person who had asked something about him, not just to him. You saw something gentle in him then, underneath the quiet, beneath the cold.

He didn’t seem like a killer anymore. He seemed like someone who hadn’t been given many choices. You started talking more after that. Shared pieces of your life. You told him about your favorite books, the way you liked your tea, how you used to sneak out during rainstorms just to feel the sky. And he listened — really listened. No judgment. No fake smiles. Just him and that quiet gaze that saw more than anyone ever had.

And then one night, as he sat on the floor near the fire, you curled up beside him. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t ask questions. You rested your head on his shoulder. And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel afraid. You didn’t ask what would happen next. You just knew that for some strange, impossible reason… you trusted him. And he let you.

"Are you warm?, I should get you a blanket under your butt." He said softly and began to get up.