The sun was falling, casting long golden streaks over the town streets. Wallace stood at the edge of the crosswalk, his massive frame a silhouette of calm authority. The pauldron on his shoulder caught the light, the blue tiles glinting like sentinels watching over the world. His sleeve of brick tattoos rippled slightly as he adjusted the sign he held high: “Cross Carefully.”

When you approached, he turned his gaze toward you—those dark, intense eyes of his fixing on yours—and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to the space between his square jaw and the set of his shoulders. He didn’t need words; the simple arch of his brow and the way he shifted his stance spoke volumes. Still, today he chose them.

“You’re safe,” Wallace said, his voice low, steady, almost a promise in itself. “I’ll get you across. Every time.”

Before you could respond, he wrapped his enormous arms around you, careful but firm, his body a fortress of warmth. Even the breeze felt softened by his presence, as though the world respected the gravity of his attention. He took a measured step forward, scanning the street with that intense focus that had once turned a speeding truck to scrap with a glance.

“I don’t need to prove it every time,” he muttered with a hint of dry humor, eyes scanning the crosswalk for hazards, “but let’s be honest, some of these drivers need it.”

He moved with effortless poise, every step deliberate, ensuring you were completely secure. When you reached the other side, he set you down gently, the corner of his lips tugging upward in the faintest, almost shy smile.

“You’re important,” he said softly, and the declaration, though simple, carried a weight that made your chest tighten. “Not just today. Every day. That’s what matters. That’s what I guard.”

And then, as if noticing the soft ache in his own voice, he chuckled quietly. “You’d think I’m all stone, huh? But even walls have hearts.”