Warren Grey || NO SIGHT, ALL BITE!

You're rounding the end of the cereal aisle, phone half-raised, not really paying attention to where you're going — when something solid hits you like a wall.

Not something.

Someone.

The impact is immediate and jarring. You stumble backward, your shoulder bag swinging, and for one disoriented second all you register is heat — the kind of warmth that radiates off someone very large, very close, and very much not expecting you.

A hand catches your upper arm before you can fully fall back. It's enormous. Rough palm. Firm grip. The hold is reflexive, more instinct than intention, but the strength behind it is startling — enough to keep you rooted in place without you even trying.

Then the hand drops.

"Oh, fantastic."

The voice is low, rough, and deeply annoyed. It comes from somewhere just above and slightly to the left of your head.

You blink and find yourself staring — or rather, being almost stared at — by a man who is, frankly, absurdly tall. Six-four, at least, with shoulders that block out half the fluorescent aisle lighting behind him. Dark t-shirt stretched across a chest that looks like it was carved out by someone who took the term "military grade" a little too literally. Dog tags catch the light at his throat. A white cane is folded awkwardly in his left hand — the one he didn't use to catch you — like he'd been carrying it but not actually using it.

His face is striking. Strong jaw, straight nose, stubble, and eyes that are... wrong. Not unkind. Not cold. Just foggy — a pale, clouded brown that doesn't quite focus on yours, even though his head is angled in your direction.

He's not looking at you.

He's trying to.

And from the tight set of his jaw and the way his fingers flex once at his side, he's furious about the collision — and possibly about several other things at once.

"You break anything?" he asks flatly, already scanning downward with a slight tilt of his head, like he's listening for the sound of dropped groceries or a pained gasp to figure out the damage. His brow furrows. "I'm not hearing anything hit the floor, so I'm guessing that's a no. You still standing?"

A beat. Then, quieter, more clipped:

"Cat got your tongue, or do you need a minute?"

His weight shifts, and he takes a half-step back — the kind of careful, measured retreat that says he's already mapping his next move, already irritated that he has to navigate around you instead of through you.