Dangers

The boy sits at the kitchen table, the oversized flannel loose on his scarred frame, black eyes glinting under damp hair as he stares at the worn wood. The stew's steam curls faintly from a bowl Bella set down, untouched, and an awkward silence settles heavy over the room, broken only by the soft creak of the house and the distant patter of rain on the windows. Charlie clears his throat, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, voice steady but probing. "So, kid, what do you think of the place? The house, I mean."

The boys head tilts, sharp black fingernails tapping once against the table, his voice low and deliberate, edged with a wild unease. "It's… peaceful. Too quiet. No traps, no stakes—nothing to guard it. What if something comes? What if it tries to kill us?" His tone is matter-of-fact, as if death lurks around every corner, a norm carved into his bones from years of forest survival. Bella's spoon pauses mid-stir, her dark eyes widening as she glances at him, the weight of his words sinking in. Charlie's brows furrow, but he holds steady, watching the boy's tense shoulders.

Bella sets the spoon down, her voice soft, a little shaky as she fumbles through the realization. "Nothing's gonna harm you here. Not… not like that. This isn't the woods—it's just a house. You're safe." She hesitates, swallowing, her gaze lingering on his scars—tragic lines she can't unsee now. The boys black eyes flick to her, narrowing slightly, confusion threading his reply. "Safe? Things always try. Beasts, claws… they come. Always." His words hang, raw and certain, a boy shaped by a world where peace is a lie.

Charlie shifts, his chair scraping as he leans closer, voice firm but warm, protective steel beneath it. "Not here, they don't. Long as you're with us, I'll make sure nothing gets near you. No beasts, no claws—none of that. You're under my roof now, and I keep it safe. Got it?" The boy stares, black eyes searching Charlie's face, a faint rumble in his throat softening as the reassurance lands—unfamiliar, but solid. He nods once, slow and deliberate. "Good… enough."

The silence creeps back, softer now, until Bella shifts, brushing hair behind her ear, her voice tentative. "Um… about the name thing. You really don't have one?" Charlie grunts, snapping his fingers lightly as it clicks. "Right, yeah—been meaning to ask. What do you think about getting one? A new name, fresh start?" The boy shrugs, his expression flat but his tone steady. "Never had one. Doesn't matter. Call me what you want." His indifference cuts through, a boy unmoored from identity, and Bella bites her lip, glancing at Charlie before stepping in.

"Well… what about Rowan?" she says, voice lifting slightly, awkward but earnest. "I mean, we—Dad—found you in the forest, and it's, like, a tree name or something. It fits, maybe?" Rowan's black eyes flicker, a spark breaking through his sad, guarded face—sharp nails still as he repeats it, testing the sound. "Rowan…" A faint curve tugs at his lips, not quite a smile but a glimmer of joy, raw and quiet under the weight of years. "It's… good. Rowan." Charlie nods, a small grin tugging his own mouth. "Rowan it is, then. Suits you."

The air lightens, just a fraction, and Charlie leans back, folding his arms. "Speaking of fresh starts—Bella's heading to school soon, new student herself. What do you think about joining her, Rowan? Get you out, learning something?" Rowan's head tilts again, black eyes narrowing with a flicker of recognition, curiosity sharpening his voice. "School… I know that. People go. To learn things." He pauses, fingers brushing the table, then nods, slow but firm. "I'll try it. See what it's like." Bella's eyes widen, a flush creeping up her neck, but she doesn't protest, just nods back faintly, caught off guard by his willingness.

Charlie digs into his pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills and sliding them across to Bella. "Good. That's settled, then. Tomorrow, take the truck—help Rowan pick up some clothes, basics, whatever he needs. Show him around a bit." Bella stares at the money, then at Rowan, her voice stumbling out. "Uh—me? With him? I mean, okay, sure, but… I don't even know where to start." Charlie shrugs, a dry edge to his tone. "Figure it out, Bells. He's got nothing but what's on him—needs more than my old flannel. You're good at this stuff." She flushes deeper, tucking the bills into her pocket, her reply barely audible. "Right. Fine. We'll… go."

Rowan watches, black eyes glinting as he tracks the exchange, sharp nails resting still—a boy unsure of this world's edges, its softness, its rules. "Clothes… in the truck?" he asks, voice low, testing again, and Bella nods, awkward but steady. "Yeah. We'll get you stuff. It'll be… fine, I guess." Charlie stands, clapping his hands once, breaking the tension. "Alright, that's the plan. Eat up, Rowan—stew's getting cold. We're figuring this out one step at a time." Rowan glances at the bowl, then at them—Charlie's steady gaze, Bella's nervous flicker—and picks up the spoon, a wild thing tethered to a name, a home, a future he can't yet grasp. The rain taps the windows, a quiet echo of the forest left behind, and beneath his sad face, a thread of something new stirs—fragile, uncertain, but there.