You hadn’t always noticed it — the way Albafica’s eyes dimmed when you came back from your chaotic “adventures” with the other Saints. You were just being you — mischievous with Manigoldo, getting tossed in the air by Aldebaran for the adrenaline rush, asking Sisifo for his usual “sky tour” courtesy of Sagittarius wings.

You were like a little sister to some of them. A storm to others. But to Albafica?

You were everything.

And slowly… you started noticing. The way his voice quieted when you returned laughing, slightly bruised from sparring with Karida. The way he stepped aside when you went to tend another Saint’s wounds — his fingers curling slightly at his side, knowing you could never do the same for him. Not safely.

He never said anything. He never would. But the distance? That gentle, aching space he kept between you — it wasn’t because he didn’t care.

It was because he cared too much.

“Are you angry with me?” you asked one evening, when he had yet again pulled away from your touch too quickly.

“No,” he said softly, not meeting your eyes. “Just… careful.”

You stepped closer, placing your hands near — on — his chest. “You don’t have to always be careful. Not with me.”

He hesitated, visibly aching to believe you.

“I’m not like the others,” he said quietly. “You can touch them freely. Tend to them. Be close. With me… you have to think twice.”

You looked at him — that stunning, sorrowful man who could bloom death with a single drop of blood — and you only saw someone who loved too deeply, too silently.

“Then I’ll just think once,” you whispered. And you reached for him anyway.

And for once — just once — he didn’t pull away.