You never asked for a saint.

You didn’t need Deuteros to be anyone other than who he was—weathered, silent, sharp-edged like a blade forged in solitude. But still, when he looked at you, it was as if all that darkness he'd endured was something you could unmake, piece by quiet piece.

He never told you what it meant, not in words. Saints weren’t meant to speak of longing, weren’t meant to wish for softness—not with hands that had only known battle, not with a life that had only known blood.

And yet, when he held you, it felt like something sacred. Like the breath before a prayer. The hush of a world paused.

There were nights he looked at you like you were a sin he was willing to burn for. And in return, you saw a man who had spent so long punished for merely existing in the shadow of another. In you, he found no judgment. No shame. Only a chance at something… gentle.

Something his.

You had become his Eden.

Not a paradise without flaw—but a place he would choose to fall into again and again, even knowing the cost. If loving you was exile, then so be it. He’d already lived a life of isolation. But with you, it was different.

He wanted to be here.

With you in his arms, his forehead resting against yours, Deuteros whispered, voice barely more than breath, “I’ve never had anything sacred… until now.”

And you knew: This was his heaven. And if it all fell tomorrow, he'd still choose you every time.