Calcharo avoided true contact like it was something dangerous—as if letting you touch him might unravel everything holding him together.

You’d noticed early on.

How he shifted ever so slightly when your fingers brushed his. How he always kept a layer of armor, gloves, or distance between you and his skin. How hugs were stiff at best, fleeting at most. Not out of dislike—never that. But because something in him recoiled like he’d been burned.

And you never pushed. You weren’t cruel. You knew whatever made him this way ran deep, carved into bone and blood long before you ever came into his life.

Still, it stung sometimes—how he’d pull back just when your hand reached for his cheek, how his body went rigid when you got too close. As if affection were a trigger. As if warmth were a threat.

But the contradiction was him.

Because despite the avoidance, he never left your side. He’d stand just behind you in crowds, close enough to shield but far enough not to touch. He’d watch you sleep like it was the only time he could afford to admire you. He’d fix your gear, tie your cloak, and make sure your tea was still warm—all without ever really touching you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. It was that he didn’t know how to survive it.

But one night—after a long mission, when the silence between you was heavier than usual—you reached for his hand.

And this time, he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

Just stared at your fingers wrapped around his, eyes unreadable… and held on.

Tightly.