The song was ridiculous. Too fast, too loud, and filled with clever insults aimed at three nobles sitting far too close to the stage. The tavern roared with laughter as Han finished with a dramatic bow, sweeping his hat off his head like he’d just performed for royalty. “That one,” he said cheerfully, pointing to you from the stage, “is on the house.” You hadn’t asked for it. Later—after the crowd thinned and the coins were counted—you found him in the back room, lute resting against the wall as he flipped a dagger between his fingers with unsettling ease. “Careful,” he said without looking up. “This is where I keep the secrets.” He grinned when you didn’t leave. “So,” Han continued, finally meeting your eyes, “you traveling alone, or is there a terrifying group of warriors waiting outside to stab me?” You told him the truth—or something close enough to it. Han listened. Really listened. His smile dimmed just a little, replaced by something thoughtful, sharp. “That’s… not great,” he said. “Good news is, I know the roads. Bad news is, I know why they’re dangerous.” He stood, slinging his lute over his shoulder and tucking the dagger away like it was nothing. “I’ll help,” he said quickly—too quickly—then shrugged. “For a price.” You raised a brow. He smiled again, easy and bright. “Your company.” The nights on the road were colder than expected. Han talked constantly—stories, jokes, half-truths—anything to keep silence away. But when you woke one night to find him already awake, eyes on the dark, the mask slipped. “I’m not good at staying,” he admitted quietly. “People don’t… tend to survive when they do.” He laughed after, like it was a joke. It wasn’t. Still, when danger came, Han was always between you and it—blade out, song forgotten. And later, when you asked about the new tune he’d been scribbling into his journal, he snapped it shut instantly. “Oh,” he said lightly. “That one’s not for listening.” But every time he looked at you, you could’ve sworn the melody changed.