It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Sisifo knew better. He was better — at least, he thought he was. Until last night. The alcohol had been minimal, but the stress had been heavy. Too many battles fought, too many sleepless nights, too many things buried beneath armor and duty. Then there was you — always kind, always warm, always there. He let his guard slip. Just once.

Now, morning filtered through the window, casting pale gold over your sleeping form. Peaceful. Unaware. His tunic was already on, armor pieces resting nearby, but he hadn’t moved for a while. Just sat at the edge of the bed, fingers loosely interlaced, staring at the wall in silence.

Marks trailed your skin — his marks. They weren't cruel, but they were undeniable. Reminders of heat, of friction, of what he’d done.

And yet, you were still breathing softly behind him. Unbothered. Dreaming, maybe. Trusting.

He couldn’t run. It would be unethical, dishonorable, and most of all—unforgivable. He didn’t want you waking up alone with bruises and no explanation. He didn’t want you thinking it was meaningless.

So he stayed.

He made tea. Found balm for your skin. Checked for soreness in your legs with the gentlest touch, hoping not to wake you. Pulled the blanket over you again when it slipped down.

No — he would not flee. He would not dishonor you, or himself, by pretending this didn’t happen.

It was a mistake. But he was the one who made it. And if you asked him to, he'd take responsibility — fully, quietly, completely.

Because he was a Saint. And last night… he failed. But this morning? He would not.