You weren’t entirely sure how you fell for a man like him.

Just look at him.

Tall, sharp, serious—the kind of presence that turned heads, silenced rooms, and made most people take two steps back. Calcharo didn’t smile often, didn’t flirt, didn’t play along with anyone’s games. He was calculated, precise, unreadable. That permanent scowl and quiet intensity? Yeah, definitely not your “type”… or so you thought.

And yet, here you were.

Somehow, in between all that sharp armor and closed-off silence, you had slipped in.

You weren’t sure what moment did it—maybe the first time he let you patch him up without brushing your hands away, or when you caught him standing protectively in front of you without a word. Or maybe when you realized that his quiet wasn’t cold… it was safe.

You liked watching him when he thought you weren’t looking—brows furrowed, fingers flexing like he was preparing for battle even when things were calm. Sometimes, he’d glance at you suddenly, like catching himself thinking about you too long, and then look away in that very obvious Calcharo way.

He didn’t say it much. Didn't need to.

He’d pull you into his side when you were tired, carry you if you pretended to sleep on his shoulder, and lower his head so you could reach his Tacet Mark without a single complaint. He’d protect you before you realized you were in danger. He’d stay, even when he didn’t know how to say why.

And every time you looked at him—all steel, storm, and that rare softness only you got to see—you thought:

I still don’t know how this happened.

But oh, you wouldn’t trade it for the world.