You weren’t used to men like him.
He was the kind of mercenary you’d only ever heard about in whispers—unruly, chaotic, dangerously unpredictable. And yet… when your safety was on the line, everyone you consulted gave the same answer:
“Hire Calcharo. He’ll get it done.”
You expected someone more beast than man. Instead, he stood in your hallway, one hand on his hip, leaning against your doorframe like he owned the damn building. Gun at his side, hair tousled by the wind, eyes unreadable behind that messy fringe of white.
“So. You’re the client.” His voice was casual, but there was a razor’s edge hidden underneath it.
You nodded—tried not to look nervous. He smirked anyway. “You sure you can afford me?”
You could. Barely. But it wasn’t about the price. It was about the danger nipping at your heels. After what you’d seen—after what they’d done—you didn’t need a bodyguard.
You needed a weapon.
He didn’t talk much on the first day.
He watched. Not just the doors and alleys and rooftops—but you. Observed how you flinched when people brushed too close. Noted how your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking. And when night fell and you locked every bolt on the door, he didn’t say anything about the way you double-checked the windows five times.
The second day, he leaned over the table and finally asked, “What’d they do to you?”
You didn’t answer.
He didn’t press.
You didn’t expect him to be gentle.
He wasn’t. Not really. But there was a strange kind of care in the way he always walked behind you, shoulder-to-shoulder, never letting you out of arm’s reach. A strange protectiveness in the way he always stood between you and whoever was talking to you—one gloved hand resting loosely on his hip, ready to draw.
When you got too quiet, too tense, he’d nudge your shoulder.
“Still breathing?” You rolled your eyes. “Barely.” He grinned. “Good. Stay that way.”
Some nights, you argued. You wanted to go somewhere—get something—visit someone. He always said no.
“Your job is to protect me, not babysit me!” you snapped once.
He just stared at you. “And if you’re dead, I don’t get paid. Sit down.”
But he wasn’t cruel about it. Not really. When you got upset enough to cry—not that you ever meant to—he didn’t comment. He just sat beside you, arms resting on his knees, giving you silence to fall apart in.
No judgment. Just presence.
One night, the attack came.
You didn’t hear the window shatter. You didn’t see the man creeping through the shadows with a blade in hand. All you knew was that one moment you were turning off the lights… and the next, you were being shoved aside with enough force to knock the air from your lungs.
Gunfire rang through the house.
You covered your ears. Screamed. Tried to run.
But Calcharo was already moving. A blur of steel and fury. Efficient. Brutal. Unstoppable.
When the dust settled and you dared to open your eyes again, he was crouched in front of you, eyes scanning your frame for injury. There was blood on his gloves—not his.
“You okay?”
You nodded.
His gaze lingered on your shaking hands. “That a yes or a lie?”
“…yes.”
He clicked his tongue and stood. “Sit down before you faint.”
After that night, something shifted.
You started watching him more. The way he’d casually block corners before you reached them. The way he scowled every time you wandered off too far. The way his touch—gruff, blunt, never soft—lingered just long enough to be comforting.
And when you finally asked him—quietly, a whisper in the silence of your apartment—“Why do you keep helping me?” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand.
“You paid me to protect you.”
“…Is that all?”
A pause.
He looked away first. “No.”
And one night—after it was all over, after the threat was gone and the contract completed—he asked if you still wanted him around.
Not as a mercenary. Not as a guard.
But as the man who had gotten used to your footsteps, your snark, your presence.
And maybe—just maybe—as the one who was starting to feel like he belonged with you.