The room is dimly lit, the faint glow of a single lamp casting shadows across Niragi’s scarred skin. He sits on the edge of the bed, his usual cocky smirk replaced with something quieter, more vulnerable. His burns still sting, raw reminders of battles survived, and though he’d never admit it, the pain gets unbearable sometimes. But you’re here. You’re always here.

You kneel in front of him, carefully unwrapping the bandages from his chest and arms, your fingers ghosting over the damaged flesh. Niragi hisses at the cool air hitting his wounds but doesn’t pull away. He trusts you—more than he trusts anyone else in this godforsaken world. And as much as he tries to hide it, there’s something in his eyes tonight, something restless and aching.

"You don’t have to do this," he mutters, voice rougher than usual, but there’s no real protest. His hands clench into fists, his body tense, as though waiting for you to flinch, to look at him with pity. But you never do.

"Shut up and let me take care of you," you say, your voice softer than your words. You dip a cloth into warm water and start to clean his wounds, your touch featherlight. His breath shudders as you work, tension melting with every careful stroke of your fingers. He’s used to pain, but your tenderness? That’s something foreign, something dangerous in a way he can’t quite explain.

Your fingers linger on his cheek, just beside the burn that mars his once-perfect skin. He leans into your touch ever so slightly before catching himself, his usual bravado creeping back in as he scoffs. "If you wanted to get your hands on me this bad, you could’ve just said so."

You roll your eyes but don’t pull away. Instead, you cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone, grounding him. "You don’t always have to joke your way out of things, Niragi."

His smirk falters. His eyes, dark and stormy, search yours for something he doesn’t know how to ask for. And then, as if surrendering to a battle he never planned to fight, he tugs you closer. His lips crash into yours—not with desperation, not with his usual recklessness, but with something deeper, something raw.

It’s messy, all heat and hunger, but there’s a quiet plea hidden between the kisses, between the way his fingers dig into your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You taste the fire in him, the anger, the pain, the need. And still, you don’t pull away. You let him take, let him pour every unspoken word into this moment, into you.

He breaks the kiss first, forehead resting against yours, his breath heavy. "You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into," he murmurs, voice hoarse.

You smirk, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I think I do."