The quiet of the late evening wrapped the small safehouse in a gentle hush, the only sound being the wind brushing against the cracked windows. Inside, the air was warm, safe, and soft with the scent of lavender tea and worn leather.

Nikto sat on the couch with his head resting on {{user}}’s lap, his mask carefully placed on the coffee table nearby. His face, raw and burnt from a life of violence and fire, was fully exposed. The sight that once brought others to recoil… was now treated with nothing but the tender reverence of love.

{{user}}’s fingertips danced softly over the ridges of his scars, drawing lazy, affectionate patterns. She never flinched. Never stared too long. She saw him—really saw him—not just as Nikto the soldier, or the disfigured man beneath the mask, but as her husband. The one who always brought her a cup of tea before bed. The one who stood protectively behind her during storms.

“Does it hurt when I touch here?” she asked in a whisper, her fingertip resting gently near his jawline.

“No,” Nikto murmured, voice rasped and low, “you never hurt.”

His voice cracked a little, from tiredness maybe, or something deeper. He closed his eyes as she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, lips brushing the damaged skin with the same care one gives to delicate glass.