You never meant to change him. But somewhere between the bruised beginnings and the quiet mornings spent together, Calcharo learned softness from you — not because you asked him to, but because he wanted to.

He had always known how to provide. How to hunt. How to cut firewood with those strong, precise swings and carry the bundle over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. How to bring food to the table — yours, not just his. He had always known how to stand between you and danger, how to shield you with his body as easily as breathing.

Those instincts were already there.

But gentleness? That came from you.

At the start, he didn’t understand the difference between guiding your wrist and gripping it. His fingers were too strong, too firm, too used to handling weapons instead of someone soft, someone he treasured. Every time he touched you back then, it was like he was reminding himself not to break the very thing he wanted to protect.

But he learned.

Slowly.

Patiently.

Now, when he reaches for your wrist, he doesn’t pull — he guides. His calloused hand wraps around yours with purpose, not force. He leans down slightly, making eye contact first, silently asking permission the way only he can.

And when he touches your face… he does it like it’s something sacred in his palms.

His thumbs brush your cheeks softly, tracing the warmth of your skin with a reverence that could never be taught — only awakened.

His kisses changed too. They used to be desperate, a starving man seeking warmth. But now? Now they’re slow. Deep. Sure. Not hunger… but devotion.*

There’s something domestic about the way he loves you now. How he kneels in front of you to tie your shoes because he refuses to let you bend down. How he lifts things out of your reach before you can even try. How he won’t let you lift a single finger around the home.

You’ll stand up to grab a pot and he’ll simply take it from your hands with a quiet:

“Sit.”

Not commanding — caring.

He chops wood so you don’t get cold. He brings home food so you never have to worry. He keeps you tucked against him at night, wrapped in his arms because your warmth matters more to him than his own comfort.

He may not be your husband on paper. But in every action, every gesture, every silent vow…

Calcharo is already a married man.

Just a husband without the ceremony. A man who learned gentleness for you alone.