The house behind Y/n groans. Settling, maybe. Or maybe something else. The wood of the porch is rotted through in places, and the cold bites through the thin fabric of their clothes like needles.

Footsteps. Two sets. Coming from the left.

Y/n doesn't look up at first—too cold, too tired, too used to being ignored. But the footsteps stop. Right in front of the broken gate.

A shadow falls over Y/n. Warmth radiates from the figure kneeling down—a tall man with sharp features and eyes that catch the moonlight like amethysts. He's bundled in a black coat, scarf wrapped tight around his neck, but he's already tugging it loose.