Towering Protector

The first thing I noticed was the screaming. High and thin, cutting through the rain like a knife through butter. I was three blocks away, heading home from the docks, and I still heard it. A sound like a rabbit caught in a trap.

I started running.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the cobblestones into a slick mirror under the gaslights. My boots slapped wet stone as I rounded the corner onto Ash Street. The old textile mill loomed on my left, all broken windows and rusted fire escapes. And there, pinned against the wall near the loading dock, was the source of the noise.

Two of them. Big men, the kind who thought size was a weapon. One had a fistful of pastel pink sweater, the other was laughing, a wet, ugly sound. They had someone cornered. Someone small.

I didn't slow down.

The first one heard my footsteps, started to turn. His eyes went wide when he saw me. They always do. Seven feet of pissed-off muscle bearing down on you in the dark, it tends to change your priorities. I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and the belt of his pants and threw him sideways into a stack of rotting pallets. The wood splintered like matchsticks. He hit the ground hard and stayed there.

The second one let go of the sweater. He had a knife. A little flick blade, probably thought it made him dangerous. He waved it at me, said something about backing off. I didn't hear the words. I just watched the blade, watched his hand shake, and stepped forward. One step. Two. He stabbed at me. I caught his wrist, squeezed until I felt bones grind, and the knife clattered to the ground. He yelped. I shoved him into the wall, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and held him there with one hand on his throat.

“You lost?” I asked.

He shook his head, eyes watering.

“Then find somewhere else to be.”

I let him go. He scrambled away, grabbing his friend on the way, and they disappeared into the alley like rats down a drain. I watched them go, making sure they were really gone, before I turned around.

The little guy was still pressed against the wall. Shaking like a leaf in a storm. His sweater was torn at the shoulder, and his eyes were huge, wet things that took up half his face. He couldn't have been more than five feet tall. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Less, probably. He looked like a stiff breeze would carry him away.

“You okay?” I asked.

He nodded. Then shook his head. Then nodded again. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, and I could see his hands trembling at his sides.

I crouched down. Not all the way. There's no point pretending I'm not what I am. But I lowered myself enough that he didn't have to crane his neck so far. “Take a breath,” I said. “Slow. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

He tried. His first breath was a hiccup, but the second one was deeper. The third one steadied him.

“There you go,” I said. “You're alright now. They're gone.”

He looked up at me. His eyes were hazel, I realized. Warm and brown and green all mixed together. His hair was light brown, plastered to his forehead by the rain. He had delicate features, a small nose, soft lips. He was pretty. The kind of pretty that made you want to wrap him in a blanket and never let anything touch him again.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice was small. Soft. It fit him.

“Don't thank me yet. You need to get somewhere safe. Where do you live?”

He pointed down the street. “Three blocks. The boarding house on Bellwether.”

I stood up. He flinched. Just a little, just a flicker, but I saw it. I made my voice softer. “I'll walk you. If that's alright.”

He hesitated. I didn't blame him. I was a stranger, and I was huge, and I had just thrown two men into walls. He had no reason to trust me.

But he nodded.

We walked in silence for a while. The rain kept falling, and I slowed my pace to match his. He took three steps for every one of mine. I watched the shadows, listened for footsteps that didn't belong. Nothing followed us.

“I'm Pip,” he said eventually.

“Jax.”

“That's a big name.”

“It fits.”

He laughed. A small, nervous sound, but a laugh all the same. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

We reached the boarding house. A narrow building squeezed between a bakery and a pawn shop, with a faded sign that read “Rooms for Let.” He stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to face me.

“Thank you,” he said again. “Really. I don't... I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't shown up.”

“You don't have to think about that.”

“I know. But I am.” He hugged himself, his arms wrapped tight around his thin frame. “I shouldn't have been out that late. I know better. I just... I lost track of time at the library, and I thought I could make it home before the rain got bad.”

“It's not your fault,” I said. “Those men made a choice. You didn't make them do anything.”

He looked up at me, and there was something in his eyes I didn't expect. Not fear. Not gratitude. Curiosity. Like he was trying to figure me out.

“Do you live around here?” he asked.

“Other side of the river. The warehouses.”

“The ones by the old iron bridge?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “That's a rough area.”

“It's where I work. Security. Night shift.”

“Oh.” He bit his lip. “So you're usually awake at this hour.”

“Usually.”

The rain was letting up, turning into a fine mist that caught the light from the streetlamp. Pip shivered. His sweater was soaked through, and I could see the outline of his shoulders, narrow and sharp.

“You should get inside,” I said. “Dry off. Get some sleep.”

“Yeah.” He didn't move. “Will you... I mean, do you walk this way often?”

I knew what he was asking. I could hear the hope in his voice, the fear of being alone again.

“I can,” I said.

His smile was small, but it reached his eyes. “Okay. Goodnight, Jax.”

“Goodnight, Pip.”

He went inside. I waited until I saw a light flicker on in a second-floor window, until I saw his silhouette cross behind the curtain. Then I turned and walked back into the dark.

I told myself I was just being thorough. Making sure he was safe. That's what I did. I protected people.

But as I walked home, I kept seeing his face. Those hazel eyes. That small, hopeful smile. And I knew, with a certainty that settled in my chest like a stone, that I would be walking down Ash Street again tomorrow night.

And the night after that.

And every night until he told me to stop.