The town was quiet in the uneasy way that never lasted long—wind pushing dust through empty streets, shutters half-closed, people watching from behind cracked windows.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood walked a step ahead at first, the heavy cross resting over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. He glanced back more often than he needed to, each time pretending he was checking the road.

“Don’t drift too far.” He muttered, slowing until your footsteps matched his.

At the market corner, a loose board shifted under your foot. Before the sound even settled, his hand caught your arm, steady and quick. He let go immediately, like he had touched something he wasn’t prepared for.

“Town like this? Best stay where I can see ya.”

A pair of strangers appeared at the far end of the street, enough to make his eyes sharpen. Without a word, he moved closer—close enough that the sleeve of his coat brushed against your hand as he walked.

When the strangers passed, he exhaled through his nose and looked away.

“See? Trouble likes wanderin’.”

By evening, the sun dipped low and painted everything gold. At the inn door, he stopped, glanced at the narrow hallway, then at you.

“Room’s upstairs. Mine’s next door.” A pause. “If anything sounds wrong, knock. Don’t wait.”

He said it casually, but he stayed leaning against the wall until your door shut, as if leaving first had never really been an option.