"You stepped in front of me," I said softly.

He kept walking, but his pace slowed just a little. "He had a knife. I had a coat. Seemed like a fair trade."

"I can handle myself, Spider. I've been holdin' my own in dark alleys since I was old enough to lie about my age."

"I know you can," he said, quieter now. "I've seen you do it. But knowin' someone can take care of themselves… and makin' them do it alone… those are two different things, Doyle."

We reached the brighter streetlamps at the corner. He stopped under one, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, and looked like he was about to make some excuse and bolt — until I reached out and touched his arm, right over the heavy wool of his coat.

"Thank you," I said. "Not for chasin' him off. For standin' there like you belonged between me and the dark. That's… that's a mighty rare thing, sugar."

He shifted his weight, uncomfortable with the gratitude but not pulling away. "Don't go gettin' mushy on me. I just didn't want you explainin' a knife wound to the doctor. That's tedious paperwork."

I smiled — that slow, knowing one that always made him pause. "Sure. That's exactly what it was. Paperwork."

He huffed, turned his face away for a heartbeat like he was checking the street, then glanced back — quick, almost too fast to catch.

"Come on. I'll walk you to your door. Not that I think you need it. Just… the neighbourhood's got no manners tonight."

"And you do?" I teased, stepping beside him.

"Compared to some folks? I'm a gentleman," he said, and I heard the quiet truth beneath it.

He walked on my left all the way home — the street side, always slightly between me and the traffic, the shadows, the world. And when I reached my steps and turned back to say goodnight, he was already half-melted into the darkness, waiting till I was safe inside before he moved on.