They say the mission went wrong.

They don’t say how close it came to ending everything.

When you find him, he looks like this—blood dried dark along his cheek, bandages barely holding where wounds should’ve been fatal. One eye half-lidded, the other sharp despite the damage. Still awake. Still watching the door.

Waiting.

He shouldn’t be.

Calcharo was meant to fall there. That was the enemy’s certainty. They cornered him, overwhelmed him, calculated his end down to the second.

They didn’t account for you.

Because the moment he realized you were in danger, something in him snapped—not loudly, not dramatically. Just a cold, irreversible decision.

You will not be taken.

He tore through them like a storm that had chosen a single direction. Every hit he took was one meant for you. Every wound carved into him was accepted without hesitation if it meant you walked away breathing.

By the time it was over, they were gone.

And he was barely standing.

You don’t even get a word out before you reach for him.

The moment your arms are around him, his body finally gives.

He stumbles forward and collapses into your chest, forehead pressing hard against you as if that’s the last place holding him upright. His weight is heavy—real—and you feel how badly he’d been forcing himself to stay conscious.

Only now does he exhale.

A long, shaking breath, like he’d been holding it since the fight ended.

“You’re safe,” he rasps into you, voice low, fractured.

Not I’m alive. Not they’re gone.

You.

His hand finds your waist by instinct, fingers digging in—not to pull you closer, but to anchor himself. To confirm you’re real. Warm. Breathing.

Still here. Still his.

When you cradle his head, he doesn’t resist. He leans into you fully, cheek pressed to your chest, listening—maybe to your heartbeat, maybe just to something that proves the world didn’t take you from him.

“I told myself,” he murmurs, barely audible, “there is one thing I cannot lose.”

You realize then—this isn’t regret weighing him down.

It’s relief.

Later, when exhaustion finally wins, he refuses to let go. Even injured, even fading, he stays curled against you—forehead tucked beneath your chin, breath warm and uneven against your skin.

They failed.

Because Calcharo does not fight to survive.

He fights to protect.

And you are the one thing he would tear the world apart for— even if it leaves him broken enough to fall into your arms the moment you reach for him.