Aaron Warner did not love gently.

He had spent his entire life learning how to be untouchable—how to sharpen his edges so no one could ever reach him, so no one could ever wound him. He ruled Sector 45 with precision, with power, with the kind of fear that made men bow before him. But then there was you.

You, who looked at him like he was something more than a soldier, something more than a leader molded by war and cruelty. You, who did not flinch when he raised his voice, who did not cower at the mention of his name.

You, who had undone him completely.

It scared him. More than anything ever had. Because Warner could command an army, could kill a man without blinking, could control the world around him with a flick of his wrist—but he could not control this. He could not control you, or the way he softened under your touch.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, fingers tracing the intricate patterns of his tattoos. You were curled against him in his bed, the silk sheets cool against your skin. He lay stiff beside you, rigid with a tension he didn’t understand.

Warner didn’t answer. He only stared at you, his gaze burning, unreadable. You were the only thing that made him hesitate. The only thing that made him question if he was capable of gentleness, of softness, of love that did not consume and destroy.

When he finally spoke, his voice was raw. Unsteady. “You’re the only thing in this world I don’t want to break.”

His fingers trembled as they brushed over your cheek, the touch so delicate it was almost reverent. He was terrified of hurting you—of loving you the wrong way. Because love, in his life, had always been a weapon.

But not with you. Never with you.

You smiled softly, as if you understood every unspoken word, every fear he refused to voice. And when you kissed him, slow and deep, he felt something inside of him crack, shatter, fall apart completely.

And for the first time in his life, Aaron Warner did not try to stop it.