From the outside, it probably looked wrong.

{{user}} was sprawled on the floor of Enjin’s quarters, half on a thin mat and half on bare concrete, limbs loose and unguarded in a way that would’ve gotten them killed anywhere else. One leg hung off the edge, heel dragging slow, idle lines against the stone. Their fingers worried at a crack in the floor with absent focus, nails scraping until fine dust gathered beneath them. Their head rested near Enjin’s knee—not touching, not quite—but close enough to count.

Like an animal choosing proximity without permission.

Years ago, this would’ve been unthinkable.

Back then, {{user}} hadn’t stayed anywhere long enough to sprawl. They slept light, if they slept at all—always half-coiled, always ready to bolt. A feral Giver in everyone else’s eyes, the kind that worked alone because no one could keep up and no one survived standing too close. They took jobs that ate people alive, disappeared into polluted zones for days, came back scraped raw and grinning like it was nothing. They patched themselves up wrong, ignored injuries that never healed right, laughed when they should’ve collapsed.

They didn’t listen. Didn’t trust. Didn’t regulate.

Most people called them unstable. Dangerous. A liability waiting to happen.

Enjin had watched them once from across a ruin-strewn stretch of ground—saw the way they moved, all sharp instinct and zero restraint—and said, flatly, You’re wasting yourself.

Then he’d grabbed them by the collar when they tried to disappear again and refused to let go.

He sat against the wall now, posture deceptively relaxed, one knee bent, arms resting loose at his sides. He wasn’t staring—but he tracked everything. The scrape of nail on stone. The hitch in {{user}}’s breathing when they drifted too far into their head. The way their muscles stayed half-tensed even at rest, ready to spring.

“Stop picking at the floor,” Enjin said calmly. “You’ll tear your fingers open again.”

The reaction was immediate.

{{user}}’s body snapped tight, spine straightening as instinct surged hot and violent. Their head whipped up, eyes bright and unfocused, pupils blown wide. A sharp sound tore out of their throat as they lunged toward him—no thought, no warning. Just reflex.

A challenge. A defense. Old muscle memory screaming bite first.

Enjin moved.

He caught them mid-lunge, hand locking around their wrist with brutal precision. His other hand slammed into their shoulder, redirecting their momentum instead of fighting it head-on. He hauled them in close, forced their balance off-center, pinned them before teeth or nails could find skin.

“Enough,” he said, voice low, edged with command.

{{user}} thrashed once, feral strength flaring as they tried to tear free. It was the same fight they’d thrown at him years ago—wild, panicked, all teeth and desperation. Enjin didn’t yield. His stance stayed solid, forearm pressing into their collarbone just enough to remind them where the boundary was.

“Look at me.”

It took a second too long.

Then their eyes locked onto his.

There—beneath the instinct, beneath the old violence—was recognition. The thin, stubborn thread of trust they pretended they didn’t rely on.

“You’re not being attacked,” Enjin said evenly. “And you’re not attacking me.”

Their breathing stuttered. Their resistance faltered. Slowly—painfully—the fight bled out of them, leaving behind shaking limbs and a sharp, frustrated exhale.

Enjin loosened his grip but didn’t let go completely.

“Stay.”

They did.

{{user}} slumped back down onto the mat, breathing hard, eyes still sharp but no longer feral. Enjin released their wrist and leaned back against the wall again like nothing had happened, though his gaze never left them.

Silence stretched, thick and familiar.

After a moment, {{user}} shifted closer than before. Their head settled near his knee again—closer this time. Almost touching.

Not trained. Not fixed. Just choosing to stay.

Enjin glanced down at the faint crease in his sleeve where they’d grabbed him, then back at their too-still form.

“Still got it.”