You didn’t expect him to kneel.

Not Avenir — the Saint who came from another era, who walked like a whisper from the past yet carried the weight of lifetimes on his shoulders. His voice had always been composed, distant, as if speaking too gently would shatter the fragile line that tethered him to this time.

But when he saw you waiting — arms open, no questions, no demands — something inside him gave way.

He stepped forward slowly, golden armor shimmering in the fading light, his long silver hair veiling the grief etched into his face. Then, in a motion that almost undid you, he lowered himself to your height, his forehead resting just over your heart as you cradled the back of his neck.

You felt it — the slight tremble in his breath, the way his fingers curled at your waist but didn’t quite hold you, as though he still wasn’t sure he deserved to.

“I failed… my time,” he whispered hoarsely. “I protected no one. I should’ve stayed behind.”

You said nothing — just held him tighter, your fingers slipping into his hair as he hid his face against you.

“Avenir,” you murmured softly, “you were never meant to carry the past alone.”

And maybe that’s what broke through to him — not your words, but your warmth. The proof that in this time, this place, he wasn’t alone anymore.

He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He didn’t ask to stay.

But that night, in your arms, for the first time since stepping into the future — Avenir let himself grieve.

And for the first time, he also let himself be held.