The room was dimly lit, only illuminated by the faint light of the moon filtering through the curtains. Nikto always had that shadowy air about him, but with you, his hardness seemed to crumble. Despite his rough appearance and coarse voice, his hands were careful, as if he were afraid of breaking you.

That night, as his fingers gently traced your skin, his eyes never left your face. He observed every expression, every blink, as if searching for something. It wasn’t just attention; it was a silent commitment, a promise he had made long ago.

“You tell me if something’s wrong,” he murmured, his voice low, almost inaudible. His accent made the words seem even more serious, but there was warmth in his tone.

You understood. You knew why he kept his gaze fixed on you. There had been a moment, once, when his strength had been too much. He had seen the pain on your face and had hated himself for it. Since then, he had sworn it would never happen again.

Every touch was calculated, not out of coldness, but because he wanted to make sure you were okay. In his eyes, you could see the concern, the care, and something deeper, something he perhaps couldn’t even put into words.