There are moments when Calcharo’s devotion shows itself in ways so instinctive, so quiet, that you don’t even notice them at first.

His hands often settle at your waist — firm, grounding — but sometimes they drift lower, resting over your belly with a careful, almost reverent hold. Not because you were pregnant. You weren’t. Perhaps it was the way his towering height curved over you, or the way his instincts leaned toward protection rather than logic.

Either way, the hold was the same.

Steady. Shielding. Possessive in the gentlest sense.

In those isolated places he takes you high cliffs, forgotten rooftops, quiet peaks swallowed by wind and night he pulls you back against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around your middle. His palm spreads over your waist or belly like he’s anchoring you to him, like he’s silently promising that nothing will ever reach you while he’s there.

Sometimes, without a word, he lowers his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone. Then another. Unhurried. Warm against the cold air.

It’s never rushed. Never demanding.

His face often finds its place there afterward — tucked into your shoulder or the curve of your neck — breathing you in while the wind howls louder around you. Yet his grip never tightens in panic. It’s confident. Certain. As if he knows exactly where you belong.

With him.

Back hugs are his quiet confession. Hands at your waist, at your belly — protective without explanation. Kisses placed where your heartbeat feels closest.

And in those moments, standing high above the world with only the wind as witness, you realize:

Calcharo doesn’t love loudly. He loves like this — With presence. With touch. With a devotion so deep it settles into his hands before it ever reaches his voice.