The fire crackled softly behind you, smoke curling toward the dim sky as you sat bundled in layers upon layers of thick blankets—each one wrapped tightly around your form because he insisted. You had only wanted to accompany him outside for a bit of fresh air, to keep him company as he chopped wood for the hearth. That was all.

But of course, Deuteros treated it like you were braving a snowstorm.

Meanwhile, he stood shirtless in the cold.

Muscles taut, hair tousled, skin kissed by faint scars and frost alike—like the chill had no effect on him at all. Every swing of the axe was clean, controlled. Silent. He worked like a man at peace… and yet, you knew better. There was always something lurking just beneath his stillness. A history. A weight.

And yet, here he was, splitting logs just to keep your favorite corner of the house warm.

His eyes flicked toward you once—just once—to make sure you were still snug in the blankets he layered on you himself. And when you gave him a lazy thumbs-up, lips chapped but smiling, you could swear his mouth almost twitched into a small peaceful smile.

Almost.

He never said things like “I love you.” Not often

But you felt it—in the small ways. The comb through your hair each morning, slow and patient, his fingers catching softly on knots and smoothing them with care. The way he folded your shawl just right, warmed your tea before you even asked, stacked firewood a little higher on your side of the room.

The way he pressed his forehead to yours before leaving for Sanctuary business, lingering just long enough that neither of you needed words.

He was a man of restraint—but his love was vast. Heavy. Solid like the stone beneath your feet.

At night, sometimes he stirred. Chest heaving, breath sharp. The kind of panic that didn’t scream—just suffocated.

And you, half-asleep, would roll over and find him there, seated at the edge of the bed, head in his hands. Scarred back rising and falling.

You didn’t speak.

You just curled behind him, arms wrapping around his middle, pressing your cheek to the space between his shoulder blades. You whispered that he was safe. That you were here. That he wasn’t alone anymore.

His hand would find yours. Always.

And by morning?

He’d be the one brushing your hair again, as if nothing happened.

But he always held your hand just a little longer after nights like that.

Yes—he was a fighter. A protector. But more than anything, Deuteros was a man who gave you peace. Even when he didn’t believe he deserved it.