They called him a gentle giant.

And yes — sometimes, sometimes — it was true. Like when he helped the Sanctuary kids reach apples in the trees, or when he cradled injured birds with hands that could crush boulders. Like when he’d lower his entire towering frame to meet a child’s gaze, soft voice rumbling like distant thunder as he promised they were safe now.

But that was them.

You?

You knew the real Hasgard.

The one who held back absolutely none of his size or strength when it came to stopping your shenanigans. Who scooped you up like a sack of grain when you were being difficult, and walked away like you weighed nothing. You hated it. You kind of loved it. But you definitely hated it.

Because he was so damn big.

His footsteps echoed like falling trees. His arms could wrap around your whole body twice and still have room. He loomed. He blocked the sun. You swore he cast shadows even indoors. And when he stood in a doorway — well, there went your freedom.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he’d hold your hand like it was the most fragile thing in the world. Sometimes he’d bend down, tucking a wild strand of hair behind your ear with those mountain-sized fingers. Sometimes, his voice would dip into that low, rare softness only you got to hear.

“I’m not made for soft things,” he once rumbled, “but for you… I try.”

And in those moments, you forgot how large he was. You only felt the warmth, the quiet reverence in his touch, the protective way he stood behind you like a wall — never in your way, always beside you.

A gentle giant?

Maybe. But only when he wanted.

And only with you.