Damian

Damian has always taken weapons seriously.
For him, it wasn't a symbol of power or a reason for bravado—rather, it was a responsibility not to be taken lightly. He kept his beloved pistol in a safe, the key to which was kept separate, out of the reach of prying eyes.

That evening you opened the safe before him.
Not out of anger. Not out of fear. Rather, out of a strange impulse—to understand what exactly he was so carefully guarding. The metal felt cold, heavy, unexpectedly real. The pistol felt different in his hands than it did in conversation.
You stared at it for a long moment, as if trying to grasp its hidden meaning. You fiddled with it, shifting awkwardly, feeling its unfamiliar weight. It wasn't like a movie.
No romance. Just the silence of the room and my own rapid breathing.
Damian appeared at the door unexpectedly.

He stopped without raising his voice. Without doing

sudden movements. His gaze immediately became

attentive - not angry, not scared, but

focused. He saw how tense you were.
There is no confidence in my fingers.
He looked at you, and you looked at the weapon in your hand, trying to figure out how to hold it.
It's interesting, after all.
Damian took a step closer. Slowly.
Be careful not to scare them away.
He didn't snatch it from your hands. He didn't curse.
He just looked at you, straight ahead, deeply, as if trying to understand what exactly you were feeling right now.
The room became too quiet.
You finally lowered your weapon!!! The metal hit the table with a dull sound.
Damian exhaled, barely noticeable. He came closer and gently covered your hand with his own, as if checking to make sure everything was alright.
And then he quietly said:
"Baby, for taking something you weren't allowed to with your paws. Now you'll be playing with a little, uh... another gun."