Next, it starts with something small.
You trip on the stairs outside your apartment.
Your foot catches on nothing—no crack, no loose edge—just empty air. Your body pitches forward, gravity eager and unforgiving.
You brace for impact.
It never comes.
The world tilts instead.
Not like falling sideways, but like reality adjusting its angle to meet you halfway. The handrail presses into your palm—not because you grabbed it, but because it moved.
You steady yourself, heart hammering.
The stairs are unchanged. Solid. Still.
You laugh weakly. "Okay. Reflexes," you mutter.
But your palm tingles where the metal touched it, warm as living skin.
As you continue down, the thought slips in uninvited:
You would have broken your neck.
The thought does not sound worried.
It sounds factual.
You walk more carefully after that.
Over the next few days, it keeps happening.
You reach for a mug fresh from the microwave—too hot. You should drop it.
You don't.
The ceramic cools under your fingers just enough to spare you the burn. When you pull your hand back, the mug is still steaming.
You stare at it.
"…Thank you?" you whisper, unsure who you're speaking to.
The toaster clicks.
Once.
Not in response.
Acknowledgment.
You stop yourself from walking into traffic when your mind drifts at the wrong moment. A sudden pressure at your shoulder halts you mid-step. A cyclist swerves wildly around you, cursing.
Your heart pounds as you stumble back onto the curb.
From the buzz of a nearby streetlight, his voice hums low and calm:
You weren't paying attention.
"I was fine," you snap under your breath.
The light flickers.
You were distracted.
You don't argue.
You can't.
Because you know it's true.
The guarding is never dramatic.
No heroic rescues.
No grand gestures.
Just… correction.
Like the world itself has begun to anticipate your mistakes.
Your phone slips from your hand, but it lands screen-up, unharmed. A shelf loosens, but collapses only after you've stepped away. You choke on water, and the spasm eases instantly, lungs clearing as if coached.
Each time, the same pattern follows:
Fear.
Relief.
Then something colder.
Expectation.
You start to notice the moments before it happens.
A subtle pause in the air. A tightening, not inside you, but around you—as if the space itself is bracing.
Watching.
Waiting to intervene.
You realize, slowly, that he is learning you.
Not just your fears. Your habits. Your weaknesses. The precise second your attention drifts. The exact angle at which your balance fails.
He does not react.
He anticipates.
The realization settles heavy and unsettling in your chest.
"You don't have to do this," you say one night, standing alone in your kitchen. "I didn't ask for a guardian."
The refrigerator hums steadily.
You did, he replies from the soft rattle of utensils in the drawer.
When you survived me.
Your fingers curl into fists.
"That doesn't mean you own my safety."
The overhead light dims slightly—not threatening, not angry.
Clarifying.
Safety is not ownership, he says.
It is responsibility.
"That's not your responsibility!"
A pause.
Then, from the quiet tick of the wall clock:
It is now.
You swallow hard.
The guarding escalates after that.
Not in frequency—but in intimacy.
He corrects your posture when you sit too tensely, the chair creaking subtly beneath you until your shoulders relax. Your breathing slows at night without effort, guided into deeper, steadier rhythms.
You wake rested even when you don't want to be.
That's the worst part.
You miss exhaustion. You miss the proof that you are still subject to your own limits.
Mira notices.
"You're… different again," she says one afternoon as you walk across campus together. "Not like before. Just—"
She gestures vaguely. "Careful. Like you're being handled."
Your stomach drops.
You almost stumble.
Almost.
A sudden firmness beneath your step steadies you.
Mira grabs your arm reflexively. "Whoa—are you okay?"
You nod too quickly. "Yeah. Just dizzy."
Her grip lingers a second longer than necessary.
"You know," she says quietly, "sometimes it feels like something's making choices for you."
The words hit too close.
You pull your arm free gently. "You're imagining it."
She watches you walk away, worry etched deep into her face.
Behind your eyes, something observes her with cool interest.
She perceives patterns, he notes.
That could become inconvenient.
"No," you whisper internally, panic flaring. "You don't get to talk about her like that."
The response is immediate.
Not harsh.
Corrective.
A pressure settles around your thoughts, firm but controlled—like a hand on your shoulder, grounding you.
I am keeping you alive, he says.
Emotions complicate that.
"I don't want to be alive like this," you say.
The presence tightens, just slightly.
You do not yet understand what "like this" means.
That night, you test him.
It's reckless. You know that.
But you need proof.
You stand on a chair in your apartment, balancing precariously, arms spread. One wrong move and you'll fall hard onto the tile floor.
Your heart races.
"Don't," you whisper.
The air stills.
"Let me fall."
Silence.
For a moment—just a moment—you feel nothing.
No pressure.
No adjustment.
No guarding.
Hope flares dangerously.
Then—
The chair wobbles.
Your stomach lurches as you tip backward.
The fall never completes.
The chair slides smoothly back into balance, as if nudged by an invisible hand. Your body is guided upright, feet planted securely.
You gasp, heart pounding violently.
From every object in the room, his presence closes in.
Do not confuse patience with permission, he says calmly.
I will not allow you to harm what is mine.
Your knees buckle.
You sink down onto the chair, shaking.
"I'm not yours," you whisper, voice breaking.
The room softens around you, lights dimming to a gentler glow.
You are under my care, he corrects.
There is a difference.
You press your hands over your face.
"This isn't protection," you say. "It's a cage."
A long pause follows.
Long enough that you almost think he won't answer.
Then, from the slow creak of the floor beneath your feet:
Cages restrict movement.
I am removing danger.
You look up, tears streaking your vision.
"At what cost?"
The answer is quiet.
Too quiet.
That depends on how often you resist.
The guarding doesn't stop after that.
It becomes more precise.
More personal.
You stop getting hurt altogether.
Not even small things. No paper cuts. No bruises. No illness. When you catch a cold, the symptoms vanish overnight.
People comment on how "lucky" you are.
You don't feel lucky.
You feel preserved.
Like something fragile sealed behind glass.
Late one night, as you lie awake staring at the ceiling, the truth settles over you with terrible clarity:
He is not protecting you from the world.
He is protecting the world from losing you.
And the more carefully he guards you—
The less room there is left for you to choose what happens next.