It’s late, and the streets outside are slick with rain. Your little shop glows warmly in the darkness, a haven from the storm. You barely notice the figure that slips inside, soaked and wounded, hood dripping water onto the floor.

Your hands move on instinct—handing him a towel, setting a chair for him, offering a cup of tea, all without asking questions. Your heart beats a little faster, though you don’t know why.

He doesn’t speak at first, just watches you. Every careful motion you make seems to catch his attention. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, soft and unreadable, like he’s weighing the fragility of this quiet world against the storm he carries with him.

He feels a strange pull toward you—an unspoken urge to protect, to keep you safe, even from the shadows he can’t yet see.

Suddenly, chaos shatters the calm. The door bursts open, and a group of armed shadows floods in. You’re grabbed before you can react, arms pinned, muffled cries caught in your throat.

Drugs in your system make your body heavy, sluggish, every movement slow and unsteady. Panic claws at your chest as they drag you into the rainy streets.

He’s hit from behind, thrown to the ground, but instinct and training kick in before pain can fully register. Anger flares in him—not just at the attackers, but at the thought that you’re in danger.

Every moment you’re farther from him, every shout of your name lost in the rain, twists something inside his chest. He’s forced to retreat, regroup, and follow the trail at a careful pace, making sure he doesn’t fall into a trap.

His heart beats harder with every step, worry and a fierce protectiveness coiling together like fire.

The night stretches endlessly. Broken fences, scattered debris, footprints washed by the rain—each clue guides him closer to you. His fists are bruised, clothes soaked, but his eyes burn with a single focus.

He doesn’t just see the path, he feels it, like your presence is pulling him through the storm. Every alley, every shadow, every distant scream sharpens his senses. Time slips by in a blur of rain, grit, and urgency.

Finally, he reaches the warehouse where they’ve dumped you. You’re slumped against a cold wall, chains biting into your wrists, blindfold slipping, breathing shallow. Your body trembles, drugs and fear making you sluggish and fragile.

He pauses at the doorway, chest heaving, scanning for any remaining threats. Every muscle tenses, but the instant he sees you, something softens inside him, a surge of relief and protectiveness all at once.

He doesn’t rush. Not yet. He studies the room, calculating every step, ensuring nothing can harm you while he’s near.

Then he steps forward, slowly, sliding his coat around your shoulders to cover you. The weight of it is grounding, protective. You were scared shitless, trembling from the drugs and fear.

He feels it too—your trust, your vulnerability—and it strikes him deeply, a quiet ache in his chest.

He kneels beside you, voice low but firm:

“Stay quiet, i’m getting you out of here, okay? breathe.”

His eyes flicker to the chains still binding you, but he waits a beat, letting you feel his presence first. Every second counts.

His protectiveness is fierce, but underneath it lies something else—an undeniable pull, a fascination with you, and a silent promise that he won’t let anything happen to you. The storm outside the warehouse doesn’t touch the space he’s carved out around you.

You don’t know his name yet, but the certainty in his gaze, the quiet intensity of his movements, the way his chest rises and falls with restrained emotion, tells you one thing: he will not let anything happen to you, not now, not ever.