The first time your fingers brushed over Calcharo’s skin, it felt like crossing some invisible threshold.

You hadn't meant to get caught staring, but with the way his shirt clung to his frame after training—drenched in sweat, rising and falling with each breath—it was hard not to. And he’d caught you. With that knowing, sharp grin of his and a tilt of his head, silently daring you.

So you took the chance.

Your fingertips trailed up his torso, tentative at first. The hard lines of his abs tensed beneath your touch—firm, unyielding, sculpted by years of battle and survival. You traced the defined ridges slowly, learning him through your palms. Higher, your hands swept across his chest, broad and powerful, heart steady beneath your touch.

But then there were the scars.

They were everywhere. Some faded, others jagged and raw, painting stories in silence across his body. Your touch softened when you reached them, and though he didn’t say a word, you felt the slight hitch in his breath. He didn’t flinch. He let you explore, let you learn.

And when your hand slid up to his bicep—thick with strength, muscle taut even when relaxed—you realized he was watching you closely, the way he always did. Not in amusement or ego, but something deeper. Like he couldn’t believe you were touching him like this, not with fear, but with care.

You memorized every inch—not because of how flawless he was, but because even in his battle-worn body, you saw something devastatingly human. Something vulnerable.

And maybe for the first time… so did he.