Her lips were stained with blood and bruised purple at the corners, but when you touched her face, Sevika didn’t flinch. She just stared up at you through half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling slow, steady — like she wasn’t still trembling with rage underneath it all. Like the fight hadn’t just ended, and she wasn’t seconds away from falling apart.

“You always taste like trouble,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over her bottom lip — soft, split, and warm.

She smirked faintly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And you always come running toward it.”

You hummed, dragging your fingers along her jaw, tilting her face up to meet your gaze. Her breath hitched. “That’s because I know where home is.”

For a moment, the world outside didn’t matter — not the blood on her knuckles, not the weight of whatever war was waiting behind the next door. It was just her and your hand, cradling her face like she wasn’t dangerous, like she hadn’t just taken down a room full of men with nothing but a blade and that cold fury in her veins.

“You’re bleeding,” you whispered.

“So kiss it better,” she rasped.

And you did — slow, lingering, like a promise neither of you dared speak aloud.

Because under all that steel and smoke, Sevika still let herself be soft — for you. Only for you.