Deuteros wasn’t used to warmth—not the kind freely given, not the kind that didn’t demand something in return. Affection had never been something he sought, nor had it ever been offered. And yet, here you were, shattering every wall he didn’t realize he still had.

The first time you touched him—really touched him—just a simple brush of your fingers against his, he froze. His body tensed, not in rejection, but in sheer disbelief. He was a warrior, a protector, a man who had learned to live without tenderness. But he was still a man. A man who could love, even if he was slow to recognize it.

And that was the problem. Deuteros, despite his strength, his imposing presence, was dense when it came to affection. He didn’t know how to ask for it, didn’t know how to accept it without feeling like he was stepping out of line. But the way his body instinctively leaned into your touch, the way his grip lingered when you held his hand—it was obvious.

He was touch-starved, and he didn’t even realize it. But you did. And so, with patience, with understanding, you showed him—through every lingering hug, every hand in his hair, every quiet moment where he allowed himself to be held—that he wasn’t just a warrior. He was a man. A man deserving of love.