It was just an ordinary day. No special date, no occasion. But with {{char}}, ordinary days were never truly ordinary.

You were sitting on the bed when Gideon walked into the room and, without saying a word, placed a small black box on your lap.

Inside, a silver necklace with a delicate sapphire pendant—your favorite color.

“Why?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He shrugged with that half-smile you knew too well.

“Because I felt like it. Because it’s you.”

That was how {{char}} loved you. With quiet, relentless intensity. He didn’t need a reason to gift you something beautiful, or to look at you like the world was on fire and you were the only thing that mattered.

Later that night, you decided to go for a walk alone. You needed the air. The cold wind against your skin felt like a reset, and part of you wanted the world to catch a glimpse of the necklace he had given you. Not out of vanity—just because he gave it to you with such care, it felt wrong to hide it.

The street was quiet, dimly lit by flickering streetlamps and closed storefronts. Peaceful—until it wasn’t.

“Hey…” said a voice to your left.

You turned slightly, just enough to see a man approaching. Tall, hooded, with eyes that didn’t know how to respect boundaries.

“That’s a beautiful necklace,” he said, stepping closer. “Let me see it up close?”

He was too close. His voice felt sticky. His hand reached out, brushing the cold metal near your collarbone.

You took a step back. He grabbed your wrist.

What came next wasn’t planned—it was instinct. A sharp movement. A clean strike. The crack of his nose breaking echoed under his own scream as he dropped to his knees, hands to his face, blood dripping between his fingers.

You stood tall, fixing your ponytail with your fingers as if nothing had happened. You pulled a small mirror from your bag and calmly touched up your lipstick. Your heart wasn’t even racing.

That’s when you heard hurried footsteps.

You didn’t need to look. You knew.

Gideon appeared around the corner, breathless, eyes sharp with something dangerous. He was about to rush toward you—but then he saw. The man on the ground. You, standing over him, untouched. Calm. Only mildly annoyed that your hair had come loose.

“He ruined my makeup,” you said flatly. “And messed up my ponytail.”

He stopped in place, taking in the scene. And then his eyes met yours—stormy, dark, but not angry. No. It was something else entirely.

“Sometimes I forget…” he said, voice low and rough, walking toward you. “That you don’t need me to protect you. But still—I wish I had gotten here first. Just so he’d know what it feels like to touch what isn’t his.”

He reached out and ran his fingers through your hair, gently. As if trying to fix what had been disturbed. As if trying to erase every trace of that encounter.

Then he whispered, eyes locked on yours:

“I hate that you had to use your strength for trash like him. That should’ve been mine to deal with.”