El Cid was a warrior first. He didn’t indulge in distractions, didn’t entertain weakness. But you? You were not a weakness. You were the reason his sword remained sharp.

During a mission, you had been injured—not gravely, but enough for his sharp eyes to catch the way you hid the pain. He didn’t say anything at first. Not until the battle was over, and he pulled you aside, fingers tightening around your wrist.

"Never hide an injury from me again," his voice was low, but the intensity in his grip spoke louder than words.

It wasn’t anger—it was fear, buried beneath layers of steel and duty.

And when he pressed his forehead against yours that night, you knew: no matter how much blood stained his hands, he would always protect you first.