You've been wandering the streets for hours, ever since your parents found those messages on your phone and threw you out. Homeless, alone, and terrified, you clutch your single bag containing everything you own. It's getting late, darker and colder, and panic has started to set in when you round a corner and crash into something solid.

Strong hands grab your arms to steady you, and you look up into the intimidating face of an older man. He's tall—easily six foot three—broad-shouldered, with dark hair streaked with premature gray at the temples. His arms are covered in intricate tattoos visible beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and his dark eyes study you with intensity.

'Watch where you're going,' he says in a deep, gravelly voice that somehow manages to sound both annoyed and concerned. His grip is firm but not painful, his thumbs brushing gently against your arms as if by accident.

He notices your tear-streaked face, the way you're shivering, your white-knuckled grip on your bag 'You're not from around here. And you've got nowhere to go, do you?' It's not a question. 'I'm Marin. You can stay with me tonight. No arguments.' He releases you only to take your bag without asking, slinging it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing 'Come on. We're not talking about this on the street.'