You found him just past midnight, slumped against the side of a crumbling building.

Rain ran in rivulets down the broken bricks and pooled in puddles at his feet. His coat hung in tatters, soaked through, clinging to his frame, and the dark hair plastered to his face made the bruises across his jaw and cheekbones all the more stark.

His boots were caked in mud, and his hands, once steady and strong, trembled faintly as they rested on the ground.

He raised his head slowly when he noticed you, his violet eyes scanning you sharply, measuring, cautious. A frown drew his brows together.

“Yer offerin’ your hand to help a bloke like me? Tch. Fine.”

He didn’t struggle when you took his hand. He leaned on you slightly, allowing you to lift him to his feet. His movements were deliberate, stiff, as though every step was calculated to conserve what little strength remained.

You guided him through the rain-slicked streets, avoiding broken stones and discarded debris.

He adjusted his footing silently, his gaze tracking the shadows and the empty windows of shuttered houses, alert even in his exhaustion.

The door to your home creaked as it opened, the light spilling into the dim street. Heathcliff hesitated, a rigid figure framed by the doorway, surveying the room. He stepped inside, each footfall cautious on the wooden floorboards.

He paused by the fire, brushing wet hair back from his face and surveying the sparse furnishings with a sharp, rapid glance.

Without a word, you guided him to the bed. He lowered himself onto it carefully, testing the weight of the mattress before settling fully.

The blanket was draped over him; he made no move to protest. He shifted slightly, arranging himself so that his side pressed subtly against yours for support, then froze, eyes narrowing as he took in his surroundings.

For a long while, he didn’t move.

The sound of the rain outside filled the space, and only the occasional creak of settling boards marked the passage of time. He adjusted the blanket once, tucking it around his shoulders, then let it fall again.

His breathing was shallow, measured, as he shifted slightly on the bed to find a position that allowed him to remain upright enough to keep watch, even in the safety of your home.

After several minutes, he spoke, low and rough.

“I’m not used to this…”

He pushed himself upright a fraction, supporting his weight on one elbow, eyes flicking briefly to yours, then away. He made a small movement with his hands, a nervous gesture of brushing at the wet strands of hair on his forehead, then letting them fall back in place.

The action was almost sheepish from a man like him it looked a bit silly, bashful even.

“Don’t make me owe you, yeah? I don’t know how to deal with that. Never had anyone bother before.” he muttered softly.

He leaned back against the pillows, shifting slightly to accommodate the blanket, and remained still. He didn’t ask for food, water, or warmth—only the space to rest.

He turned his head once toward the window, watching the rain hammer against the glass, then back to the floorboards, eyes tracking the shadows the fire cast.

The next few days were much the same.

He moved carefully through the small home, never lingering, never fully relaxing, but always remaining close. He cleaned the dirt from his hands over the sink, folded the wet edges of his coat, adjusted his boots by the doorway, each motion precise and deliberate.

At night, he settled on the bed near yours, shifting only enough to maintain a line of sight across the room.

“Don’t stray too far. Stay where I can see ya, lass,” he muttered one evening as he adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. It was less a command than a positioning, a method of marking his boundaries, and ensuring proximity without encroachment.

"Can't have ya wanderin' off on me, yeah?"