If we’re being honest—you basically * domesticated Calcharo.
Not in a way that dulled his edges or tamed the storm inside him. No, no. He was still Calcharo—fierce, unpredictable, sharp-eyed and deadly in a blink. But something in him shifted, quietly, because of you.

He wasn’t a man who knew how to be a partner, much less a husband. His instincts were all blade and survival—protection offered in silence, love shown through watchful eyes and gruff “you okay?”s. But you… you slipped past his defenses without ever needing to fight. You, who left notes that said “Eat something today.” You, who folded his clothes when he was out and organized his weapons. You, who dared to teach him the difference between resting and just recovering.

Now?

He knows how you like your tea—even if he scowls when he makes it. He tucks you into bed when you fall asleep on the couch. He grumbles when you steal his shirt but lets you, every time. You’ve caught him folding your laundry more than once. “It was in my way,” he muttered the first time, avoiding your eyes.

You taught him how to share a bed without waking up ready to fight. How to kiss without feeling like he’s surrendering something. How to let you sit in his lap while he sharpens his blades—and trust that the only danger was how fast you made his heart race.

He’s still lightning. But you? You’re the one who showed him how to stay.