You didn’t mean to hurt him. Gods, you never did.

The moment he left — vanishing like the petals he so often wielded — it hit you. Not the anger. The grief.

You hadn’t slapped a Saint. You had slapped the man who always kept his distance so he wouldn’t ruin what he cared about. And now he believed he’d ruined you.

It takes hours to find him. No surprise — he's always known how to disappear.

You find him just outside the sanctuary walls, among the roses that bloom under moonlight. Not his. Wild ones. His cloak is wrapped around him like armor, but it’s clear he’s not hiding from danger. He’s hiding from you.

You don’t speak right away. Just step into the quiet, slowly.

He hears your footsteps, but doesn’t look up. He still thinks he doesn’t deserve to.

You kneel beside him.

He flinches—not from fear, but the ache of your nearness.

“You shouldn't be here,” he murmurs. “Not near me. Not after what I—"

You touch his sleeve.

He freezes.

Not because he’s scared.

Because… he missed you.

And you just touch him—like he’s not made of poison. Like he’s still the man you fell for. Like your slap wasn’t a rejection but a moment, a mistake, one that never took away everything he is to you.

When he finally looks at you, he’s still trembling. Not visibly. Not dramatically.

Just in the way his eyes flicker, lips parted in quiet disbelief. You reach up, gently brushing the mark your palm left on his cheek.

And in a whisper, you say:

“You’re not poison to me.”

His breath hitches. His eyes shut tight.

You pull him into your arms.

And this time, he doesn’t walk away.

He lets himself be held — and believes, maybe for the first time, that even someone like him… can still be loved.