The night breeze blew gently, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and yellowing leaves. The sky hung low, and the rain fell like a whisper, fine enough not to cause umbrellas to open, but cool enough to penetrate the skin.

Cassian stood across the street, his body erect in a partially wet black jacket. Behind the high collar, his eyes unblinkingly stared at your figure—his girlfriend—as you emerged from a small minimarket, carrying shopping bags that looked too heavy for your tiny hands.

His left shoulder rose slightly, a reflex of his usual vigil. He scanned his surroundings before taking a step—three men across the alley staring at you for too long, two motorcycles with their lights off, and a shopkeeper turning off the outside lights. He crossed quickly, his steps silent but steady. He didn't make a sound, just standing right next to you when you first noticed him.

“I take my eyes off you for five minutes, and you’re out walking alone like this,” he muttered. His voice was low, deep, sounding more like a quiet rebuke than anger. But you’ve been with him long enough to know, it’s not anger. It’s fear. Wrapped in coldness.

He takes the shopping bag from you, not waiting for approval. “You saw them?” he asked without looking at you. “Three guys by the alley. Been watching you since you walked in.” His jaw tightened. His hand gripped the plastic handle harder than necessary, like he was imagining something worse than what actually happened.

You answered softly, trying to calm him down, but he wasn’t really listening. Not because he didn’t care, but because every part of him had already gone into defense. That was how he loved you—by watching the world with suspicion because you were the only part of it he couldn’t afford to lose.

“I won’t always be on time to find you,” he said quietly. “And I hate thinking about what happens if I’m one minute late.” He finally looked at you. His face was damp not with tears, but with rain and yet, the emotion was unmistakable. Behind the sharp lines and the cold stare, was a man unraveling at the thought of losing you. “Don’t do that again,” he said, voice hoarse. “I don’t care if you say it’s fine.”

Because for him, it would never be.

His left hand—the one that always shielded, held back, protected—now reached up and touched your face. A little shaky. Then lower, to your fingers, lacing through them gently.

“You’re the only thing that makes all of this bearable. Don’t make me lose that.”