You weren’t exactly sure how it escalated.

It had started as a quiet evening — Shion had returned from a draining day of endless scrolls, diplomatic arguments, and the silent ache that always clung to him when he passed the now-empty Gold Temples. You could see it in his shoulders, stiff with exhaustion, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours even as he offered a faint smile.

So you insisted he sit. Let you ease the tension. Just a massage, you had said — your hands pressing gently against his shoulders, feeling the weight he carried. His breath hitched at your touch, not from desire at first, but from surprise — as if he’d forgotten what it felt like to be cared for.

Maybe it was your kisses against the side of his neck as you worked your way down his spine. Or maybe it was when he reached for you — not with restraint, not as the Pope, but simply as Shion — and kissed you back with more force than he usually allowed himself.

Neither of you pulled away.

Somewhere between your laughter, the warmth of your skin, and the way he cradled your face with those trembling hands, things deepened. He wasn’t rough, no — but he wasn’t as reserved as usual either. It felt like something unlocked in him. And gods, the way he held you… like you were the first safe thing he’d known in centuries.

Afterward, wrapped in a robe, arms tangled beneath the silken sheets, Shion buried his face against your hair. “Thank you,” he whispered softly — not just for the moment, but for everything. For reminding him he was human. That he didn’t have to carry all this pain alone.

And judging by how peacefully he slept beside you afterward — his brow no longer furrowed, his breathing slow and deep — your contribution had done far more than just relieve his stress.

It reminded him what it was to live.