For someone so fierce—so undeniably dominant in the battlefield—it was honestly hilarious how shy Calcharo was when it came to women. Or, well… maybe dense was the better word.

He didn’t understand women. Not really. Not fully. Emotions? Subtle cues? The meaning behind a glance or a touch? All of it flew clean over his head. But that didn’t mean he didn’t try.

You’d ask him to pass something? He’d hand it to you without question.
Needed help with your boots? He’d kneel down immediately, no clue that your heart skipped a beat from the sight.
Too tired to walk? He’d pick you up like it was nothing, no hesitation—just instinct.

It wasn’t flirting. It wasn’t suave. To him, it was just helping. Courtesy. Complying.

So much for the terrifying mercenary who tore through enemies like lightning—yet here he was, awkwardly offering you his cloak when you shivered, not realizing he’d just made you fall for him even more. When you’d call him a gentleman, he’d blink at you in confusion, brows furrowing like he didn’t even know what that word meant in the romantic sense.

He didn’t do it to be charming. He just didn’t want you to struggle.

You were the only one who saw it—the quiet, uncertain softness beneath the armor. And maybe that’s what made him so endearing.

Because for all his strength and danger, Calcharo—your storm—was oddly gentle… even if it was entirely by accident.