1989. Valentine’s Day Evening.

You hadn’t expected much. Saul wasn’t exactly the type for grand gestures—his world was usually more Marshall amps than candlelight, and he was shy with you, even if you were dating for almost 2 years. But tonight, something’s different.

You open the bathroom door after a long day at work, just to find it bathed in a warm amber glow. The mirror is fogged from steam, soft rock playing from a cassette deck on the counter. Saul stands by the tub, bare-chested, long curls falling over his shoulders, his jeans hanging low on his hips —of course he isn't even in his underwear. He’s lighting the last of the candles with a focused calm, like he’s been planning this all day.

His gaze lifts when he sees you, and that familiar crooked grin stretches across his face. “There you are,” he murmurs, voice raspy from smoke and the quiet. “Took you long enough.” He adds with a small grin.

You notice two glasses of red wine on the side of the tub. The water is warm, scented with something calming. He didn’t need to say anything else. He just opens his arm slightly, silently inviting you in—no pressure, no performance. Just him. Just you.