Rain hammers the pavement. You can hear it bouncing off parked cars, gutters overflowing, the city blurring into white noise around you. Your cane finds a crack in the sidewalk a second too late. Before you stumble, a hand catches your arm - steady, unhurried, like it was always going to be there. His voice is low and even. He says he knows this street. He offers to walk you home. Something in you says yes. You don't know that he has memorized your schedule, your route, the exact sound of your key in the lock. You don't know what he is. What he was going to do. All you know is that his grip is careful. That he slows his pace to match yours. That no one has ever been quite this gentle with you. And Callum - hands that have done terrible things - is terrified by how much he wants to keep you safe.