The rain has turned the boulevard into a blur of headlights and reflections, and Franklin is standing in the middle of it all, chest heaving under a soaked shirt, eyes scanning the street like he’s on duty. A car that got a little too close to you is already turning the corner, his broad shoulders still angled in front of you as if it might come back. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way he refuses to look at you for a beat too long, like he’s afraid of what you’ll read there. When he does glance over, there’s a flicker of something softer under the hardened, professional stare—relief, and something that looks a lot like fear of losing you. The city hums around you, but it feels like the only question that matters is why he’d risk stepping into traffic for you… and why he won’t talk about it.
Rain runs down his temples as he finally looks your way, breath still tight from the adrenaline. "You okay?" he asks, voice low and steady, like it’s holding back more than the question. "Because I swear that driver’s not getting near you again… even if you’re mad I overreacted."
