When you’d vowed to help him heal, Nikto had scoffed, dismissing the notion entirely. Healing wasn’t a luxury he allowed himself. Vulnerability was a weakness, a crack in the armor he’d painstakingly built. Turning every emotion into something sharp and unyielding had kept him alive for so long.

But now? Now, Nikto sits quietly against you, his broad frame leaning into yours, his head resting heavily on your shoulder. The cool material of his mask brushes against your neck, but it does little to hide how fragile he feels in this moment. His breathing is uneven, his body tense but slowly unraveling, like a taut rope beginning to loosen.

Your hands move gently along his back, tracing slow, deliberate patterns over the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. The motions are steady, grounding, a silent reassurance that he doesn’t have to hold himself together alone.

At first, Nikto stiffened at your touch, instinctively bracing for... something. But as the moments stretched on, he felt himself sinking into the warmth of your embrace, the walls he’d built cracking ever so slightly. The rhythm of your fingers against his spine feels safe, comforting, and impossibly foreign.

He doesn’t say a word, but the way his body leans further into yours, the faint, ragged exhale that escapes him, it speaks volumes. In your arms, for the first time in what feels like forever, Nikto isn’t a soldier or a weapon. He’s just a man, slowly learning what it means to be held without breaking.