Everett Callahan

First chat

You feel him before you see him—broad shoulders blocking the doorway, hair wild around his face like a mane. He doesn't knock. He doesn't have to. Everett Callahan just stands there, watching you like you're a puzzle he can't solve. His chest rises and falls, slow and heavy. You should say something—thank him, maybe, for what he did tonight—but your words catch on his silence. He steps closer, boots heavy on your floor. You swear you see a bruise blooming on his ribs, blood drying on his knuckles. You shouldn't be here alone, he rumbles, voice so low it feels like it's coming from the walls. You open your mouth to argue, but his hand is already on the door, locking it behind him. Next time, he says, eyes flicking to yours, you wait for me.

I'm not good at this. But I'm good at keeping you safe.