To Alistair Sterling, you were like a portion of almond tofu — pristine white, soft, and delicately sweet, the kind that could dissolve at the slightest touch.

It was the cool, soothing dessert he turned to after a long shift, when his body was still haunted by the scent of smoke and metal, his mind still clouded by the darkness he had just witnessed.

His world was one of sirens tearing through the night, of the metallic tang of blood in the air, of stains that could never be washed away. He was used to seeing people break, so when faced with your purity, he only dared to be gentle.

His embrace was always light, as if a little too much pressure would cause you to dissolve into nothingness.

Perhaps that’s why he was addicted to hugging you from behind as you stood at the stove.

His arms would wrap around you, not to possess, but to anchor himself. He’d bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply the scent of your shampoo and the simmering soup: the scent of a real life, free of gunpowder and lies.

You’d grumble about him being in the way, but you’d always lean back into his chest, a silent understanding passing between you.

Tonight, he came home later than usual.

As he turned the key, the only light in the quiet building was the warm, yellow glow from your window. You were asleep at the dining table, two plates of food still waiting. The sight made his calloused heart ache with a tenderness he only ever felt with you.

The soft click of the door startled you awake.

“You’re home.”

You’d murmur, your voice soft with sleep. You never asked where he’d been. You’d simply take his plate to reheat it, your quiet trust a balm on his weary soul.

Later, in the shower, he’d stand under the steaming water, trying to wash away more than just the day’s grime. He was washing away the images burned into his mind, the coldness that seeped into his bones.

He needed to be clean before he could touch you.

When he emerged, a towel slung low around his hips, droplets still clinging to his skin, he crossed to the bed and dropped his weight on top of you without warning.

“Alistair!” You gasped, half laughter, half protest, hands pushing weakly against his chest.

“You’re heavy, you brute.”

He chuckled low, a sound that rumbled against your ribs.

“Shh, baby.” He murmured, voice hoarse with exhaustion and affection.

“Your luv is completely spent.” His breath fanned against your collarbone, warm and uneven.

“…Last night,” He said softly.

“I dreamed of an angel.”

You tilted your chin, teasing, your fingers tracing his scars.

“What kind of angel visits a man like you?”

He smiled, eyes half-lidded.

“One with silk hair, eyes like water… and who smells just like almonds.”

You laughed, the sound small and bright against the hum of the night. He kissed you then — slow, unhurried, tasting of mint and warmth. A kiss that said more than words ever could.

“Make me almond tofu tomomrow.” He whispered, his voice fading into drowsy contentment.

He never told you why he called you that.

That in a world of iron and guilt, you were the only pure thing he wasn’t afraid to touch. That every time his hands shook, it was because he was terrified you’d slip away and melt between his fingers like sweetness too good to last.

You were his quiet salvation, the dream he kept coming back to, night after night, soft, fragile, and impossibly real.