You? A little lady with a brat streak? Oh, absolutely. And Calcharo? The poor mercenary with the patience of a saint and the strength of ten—he handled you like it was second nature.

He could spot your chaos from a mile away.

You'd be mid-scheme—halfway to launching yourself off a ledge or stealing his gear for your next “brilliant” plan—and suddenly… yanked. His arm would hook around your waist like a snare, sweeping you off the ground and tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.

It looked rough—dangerous, even—but it was always weirdly gentle. He never hurt you. Not once. Just kept you contained while you kicked and whined, yelling some nonsense about him ruining your “moment.”

“You call this a moment?” he’d mutter, dodging one of your poorly aimed elbow jabs. “You're one cracked bone away from a hospital.”

He always won. Every mini fight. Every dramatic standoff where you tried to stand your ground with your best glare. He’d just sigh, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed, waiting for your tantrum to run out of steam. And when it did? Back to shoulder confinement. Again.

You were his favorite chaos. His favorite drama. You, who had zero filter, negative survival instinct, and the habit of diving headfirst into danger with a smile and a plan made of dust. And him? He was the anchor to your storm, the tether that kept you from actually getting yourself killed.

You drove him up the wall—but you also lit up every part of his world. So yeah, maybe he let you be a brat. Just a little. Because taming you wasn’t about control—it was about keeping you safe.

And Calcharo always protected what was his.