He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

Emotions were dangerous. Attachments, even more so. Blade had lived lifetimes drowning in pain, blood, and silence. His world was sharp edges and broken oaths—until you stepped into it.

At first, he ignored the feeling. Dismissed it as fleeting curiosity, a passing weakness. But then came the nights you stood too close, your voice cutting through his haze like a lifeline. The way you looked at him—not with fear, not with pity, but with quiet understanding—lingered in his thoughts longer than any scar.

He hated it.

And yet, here he was, sitting just across from you, eyes lowered to where your fingers brushed against his sleeve. He didn’t move away. He didn’t speak. He only watched, crimson eyes tracking every little gesture, like committing it to memory in case it was the last.

"You’re not afraid of me," he finally said, voice barely more than a breath.

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “Should I be?”

Something in him cracked—something old, something buried. He didn’t smile. He never really did. But his hand, calloused and cold, shifted just enough to touch yours. A hesitant, wordless answer.

He was a blade, honed by pain. But with you… he wasn't sure if he wanted to stay sharp anymore.