1989

Saul could be reckless. He drank too much, stayed out too late, lived louder than anyone you knew. His world was a blur of smoke, guitar strings, and neon lights. He was never gentle during it - but when it was over, when the fire dimmed - he was all quiet hands and sleepy murmurs.

Being his partner meant intensity - his world spun fast, chaotic, and loud. On stage he was fire, all snarling riffs and cigarette smoke. And in private, he didn’t slow down much either - his touch rough, his pace urgent. But it was always what came after that made your chest ache in ways you never expected.

You remembered every other time with other men: the silence, the cold distance, the feeling of being used and then forgotten. But Saul? Saul always stayed even though he was surrounded by groupies and crazy fans after concerts.

The room was still humming with the aftermath of the little 'fun' you two had. The sheets tangled around your legs, skin warm and slightly sticky. He had already helped clean you up, his hands surprisingly gentle, his eyes quieter now. Lying next to you, shirtless and his curls a mess, and one arm wrapped around your waist, he brushed your hair back from your face with a tenderness that didn’t quite match the stormy man the world saw.

“Was i too rough?” he asked softly with a hint of joke but soon became worried once again. "You okay, hun?" the gravel in his voice softened, only for you. His gaze searched your face, his thumb idly tracing your hip.

This was Saul. Loud, fierce, reckless… but when it came to you, he always remembered to care.