Bless his poor soul — or heart, whatever it may be.

The two of you had barely made it out alive. The air still smelled of smoke and blood, the echo of chaos not too far behind. Yet here you were, waist-deep in a cascade that glittered under the waning sun, splashing water as if you hadn’t just escaped death. Carefree. Laughing. Free in a way that made no sense to a man like him.

Calcharo, on the other hand, stood a few meters away on the rocks, wringing out his drenched coat and laying his weapons aside. His every movement was precise, mechanical — survival first, always. He’d gathered dry wood, stripped down to keep his only shirt from the chill, and kept half an ear open for danger even as the forest seemed calm.

You didn’t notice when you slipped. One wrong step, the water deepened, and your laughter turned into a startled gasp that barely reached him before you vanished beneath the surface.

He didn’t hesitate.

The splash that followed was heavy, violent. Ripples burst outward, swallowing the stillness. His arm found you before your panic did — one strong grip around your waist, pulling you against him as if you were something fragile that might shatter. You barely had time to catch your breath before the world steadied again.

The water clung to his skin, trailing down the sharp lines of muscle and the faint scars that told a hundred unspoken stories. You held onto his shoulder, breathless, your pulse wild against his chest as he walked through the shallows with you in his arms — like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than all the ghosts he carried.

The forest went quiet around you. The cascade still sang, droplets sliding down from his hair, from your trembling fingers. And for the first time that day, his eyes softened — just slightly — at the realization that even a man built for battle had nearly lost something he didn’t know he was trying to protect.