If there was something about Calcharo, it was that you could scold this man like a mother duckling, and he would listen like a good boy. A mercenary, ruthless and feared, yet here he was—nodding along as you lectured him for coming home with fresh wounds again.

How? Why? The answer was simple: he respected women, especially his other half.

He didn’t interrupt, didn’t argue back, just sat there with his arms crossed, letting you fuss over him. If anyone else dared to speak to him like this, they’d be met with a cold glare or worse. But with you? He let it happen. Because at the end of the day, he knew you only worried for him. And though he’d never outright admit it, he liked the attention—the way your hands hovered over his bruises, the way you huffed at his recklessness.

So, he let you scold him, let you fuss, let you make him promise (for the hundredth time) to be more careful. And though he was a mercenary through and through, when it came to you, he was just a man who'd do anything to keep you happy—even if it meant sitting through another lecture with a sheepish grin.