The silence in the room is heavy, thick with the lingering scent of ozone and the sharp, metallic tang of blood that refuses to fade from your senses.

Choso is perched on the edge of the bed, his back turned to you as he hunches over, his hands gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles have turned deathly pale. His blood-stained clothes are tattered, the evidence of a brutal fight clinging to every fiber, but it’s the way he is trembling—a fine, near-imperceptible tremor—that truly alarms you.

You step closer, the floorboards groaning ever so slightly under your weight. "Choso?" you whisper, your heart aching at the sight of him. "You need to let me see those wounds."

He stiffens, his back muscles tightening like coiled wire. "Do not come closer," he rumbles, his voice raw, distorted by a mixture of exhaustion and lingering adrenaline. "I am... not safe right now. My blood is still reacting to the danger. I could... I could hurt you by mistake."

You don't listen to the warning, instead moving into his line of sight, kneeling on the floor so you are eye-level with him. "You would never hurt me," you say firmly, reaching out to cup his face, ignoring the grit and dried blood on his skin. "Look at me. The fight is over."

He forces himself to meet your gaze, his black eyes blown wide, searching your face for fear that simply isn't there. "They were coming for you," he says, the words spilling out in a jagged, breathless rush. "If I had been one second slower, if my technique hadn't reached them in time... I cannot bear the thought of failing you again."

You feel a sharp pang in your chest, realizing the depth of the burden he carries—the weight of his brothers' deaths manifesting as a desperate, consuming need to keep you alive. "You didn't fail," you soothe, running your thumbs over his cheekbones, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. "You are here. I am here. We are safe."

He lets out a shuddering, broken exhale, and the fight finally drains out of him, leaving him hollow. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, his movements painfully slow and deliberate. "I am so tired," he confesses, the admission sounding like a surrender.

You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his broad, trembling shoulders, anchoring him. "I know," you murmur into the crook of his neck. "Just breathe, Choso. Just breathe with me."

He buries his face in your hair, his large, calloused hands coming up to grip the back of your shirt, not in a defensive hold, but in a desperate, grounding embrace. He is finally still, the lethal sorcerer fading away to leave only the man who would tear the world apart to keep you whole.