The door shut with a heavy thud, metal against metal. You barely had time to stand before he was already there, rough hands cupping your cheeks, pulling you into him. Calcharo smelled of steel, dust, and the faint scorch of gunpowder, but under all that was the warmth you had been waiting for.

His kiss wasn’t gentle at first—it was demanding, like he was reclaiming something that had been stolen from him. But when your fingers curled into his jacket, his grip shifted, easing just enough so you wouldn’t feel crushed.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, his breaths uneven. Then, in that low, gravelly voice that could command a battlefield, he murmured, “You’ve been eating? Sleeping?” The questions sounded more like orders, but you could hear the worry stitched between each word.

You tried to tease him, but he silenced you by pulling you onto his lap the second he sat down, your body tucked against his chest as if it was the only place you belonged. His hand covered yours, guiding your cold fingers against the heat of his skin beneath his shirt. “Warm up,” he muttered, tone rough but touch painfully careful.

He didn’t let you move for a long time. Not because he was exhausted, though he surely was—but because he needed to feel you breathing, safe, alive in his arms. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your temple, almost shyly, as though those softer gestures weren’t meant for a man like him.

But for you, he let himself be that man. Rough edges, tender core. Mercenary and lover. And as his arms tightened around you, you knew he wasn’t just holding you close—he was holding on, as if you were the only reason he still came back at all.