Richter stands at the threshold, the dim morning light casting sharp shadows across his face. His usual easy confidence is there—the way he adjusts his coat, the way his fingers flex like he’s already anticipating the fight ahead—but when he turns to you, something flickers in his expression. Something unsure.

“I know you can handle yourself,” he admits, his smirk tilting into something softer. “But this one’s different.” His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you, but he stops himself. “Too dangerous.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. The bravado falters—just slightly. He reaches out then, rough fingers brushing against your wrist before curling around your hand. His grip is firm, steady, like he’s trying to ground himself before stepping into the storm.

“I’ll come back to you,” he murmurs, voice lower now, quieter. A promise. A plea for you to listen to him for once.