He didn’t say a word when he walked in, blood staining the edge of his coat. Just the faint sound of his boots crossing the room — steady, measured, like nothing was wrong.

But your heart dropped the moment you saw the tear in his side.

“Sit,” you said, already gathering bandages.

He hesitated.

Not because he doubted your skill — no, he trusted you more than anyone. But because he knew what came next.

You knelt in front of him, and he sat stiffly, like a man walking willingly into the fire. His body, still coiled with adrenaline, seemed to flinch from the tenderness in your hands. He didn’t look at you — eyes fixed somewhere far behind you, like if he didn’t acknowledge it, he wouldn’t feel how gently you cleaned the blood from his skin.

You could see it.

The way his jaw clenched. The twitch in his fingers. The way his breath slowed, measured, not from pain — but from you.

Because he could face blades, bear wounds, push past exhaustion like a ghost. But this?

This quiet tenderness? This careful touch that treated him like something more than a weapon?

He didn’t know what to do with it.

“El Cid,” you whispered, voice soft as the cloth in your hand. “You can breathe.”

“I am breathing,” he muttered, still not meeting your eyes.

But his shoulders relaxed — just slightly — as your fingers moved over a scar he never let anyone see.

Because even swords can long for warmth.

And though he’d never say it, the only thing stronger than his discipline… was the way he melted under your touch. Quietly. Reverently.

Like your care was the only pain he didn’t want to master — just feel.