You were so ridiculously obsessed with his Tacet Mark.

Right there—centered on his forehead, glowing softly like it had a mind of its own. It wasn’t just a mark of battle or Wuthering Waves—it was him. The part of him that pulsed with quiet power and emotion, even when his words didn’t. And naturally… it drove you crazy in the best way.

The only problem?

It was on his forehead. And you were way too short.

It became a running thing. You’d stand in front of him, arms crossed, fake-pouting as you looked up at him, then looked at his forehead, then back at him again. “Unfair,” you’d mutter. “Completely unreachable.”

But did that stop you? Of course not.

You’d tiptoe, lean up with effort—wobbling and stretching just to graze your fingers along the mark. Sometimes you'd drag a stool over like a determined little gremlin on a mission, climbing up just to reach it properly and admire it like it was your personal little treasure.

And he—stoic, serious Calcharo—would just let you.

Standing perfectly still, expression unreadable but eyes soft, he’d lower his head slightly, just enough so you could reach. No teasing. No sarcastic remarks. Just calm silence as your fingertips ghosted over it, as if your touch grounded something in him he didn’t even realize needed grounding.

Sometimes, you’d press a kiss there. Forehead kisses were a must. A silent ritual. One he leaned into every time without fail.

The way he let you explore so patiently, obediently… as if giving you access to his mark was the same as giving you his trust.

And he did.

Because if anyone could leave fingerprints on the most sacred part of him—it was you.