He's light on his feet, low to the ground. His eyes scan everything that moves in the woods, every leaf, every flick of light. And then his eyes land on you.

You're disheveled, hair messy, bags under your eyes. Bruised, bleeding.

His movement is quick, so silent that by the time he's behind you, you haven't noticed him. His brows are furrowed, lips frowned. A twig snaps, giving him away. He raises his hands, palms open, an attempt to show you that he isn't a threat.

"Easy, there."