You weren’t supposed to meet like that.

The first time you crossed paths with Calcharo, it wasn’t under soft lighting or mutual cause. It was in the middle of a storm-drenched alley—blood in the rain, breath caught between instinct and confusion. He came for someone else. A bounty. A target. A threat.

He hadn’t expected you.

Your movements had been fast—trained. He didn’t question it. Just drew his weapon and lunged. You blocked the first hit. Parried the second. But the third—

His blade grazed your cheek. Too shallow to wound, deep enough to tear your hood. The fabric fell back, and the second he saw it—your Tacet Mark carved like a silent strike across your cheek—he froze.

Not because you were a woman. Not even because you were beautiful.

But because you were a Resonator. Like him. Marked. Like him.

And that changed everything.

He didn’t apologize—not with words.

But he didn’t swing again. Instead, he sheathed his blade with a grunt and muttered something about “wrong target” before walking off with the same chaotic strut he arrived with.

You thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

You ran into him again. And again. And somehow, the wrong target became the only person he started to look for.

He wasn’t romantic. Not obviously. Not wordy.

But his hand? Always hovered near your face. Gloved fingers brushing against your cheek more often than necessary. And sometimes—just sometimes—he forgot the glove. Rough fingers tracing the jagged curve of your mark like he was grounding himself.

Like he needed the proof: You’re still here. Still fighting.

When you first got injured near the mark—a clean graze from a flying shard—he lost it.

Didn’t even think.

He yanked you behind him so hard your feet left the ground, shoved his own cloak over your head, and with a flash of steel and fury—ended the fight without a word.

When you pulled the fabric down, breath caught and limbs still trembling, he was standing over a pile of silence.

“…It was just a graze,” you mumbled.

He didn’t answer.

He was too busy looking at you. Jaw clenched. Eyes dark. Glove clenching and unclenching at his side like he didn’t trust himself to touch you yet.

That night, he didn’t speak much.

But you felt it.

When the world went dim and the quiet settled in… his hand reached out. No glove. Just his fingertips, brushing that scarred line again.

And then—his lips.

A breath-soft kiss to the mark he once gave you by mistake. Reverent. Grounding.

A silent apology. A deeper promise.

He’ll never say it outright, but you’ve always known:

You’re not a burden. You’re not a prize to guard.

You’re his equal. His weapon. His partner.

And even if you met by mistake?

He’s never letting go now.

Not of the woman with the mark he nearly didn’t see.

Not of the one who fights beside him.

Not of you.