To everyone else, Saga was composure personified — noble, refined, his presence like polished marble. Golden cloth perfectly in place. Voice calm and deep. A man who inspired awe, fear, and reverence.

But behind closed doors?

The moment the door clicked shut, his mask shattered.

He was on you before you could speak — arms around your waist, face buried in your neck like he’d been holding his breath the entire day. No words, just silence and a tremble in his shoulders.

“Saga—”

“Let me…” His voice cracked, low and desperate, “Just for a moment… please.”

His grip wasn’t forceful, but it was firm, like he was terrified you’d vanish. His fingers splayed over your back, pulling you impossibly close, and when you brought your hands to his hair, the sharp inhale he let out nearly broke you.

He kissed your shoulder once. Then again. Then your wrist. Your fingers. Slow, reverent, worshipful.

He nodded against your skin, almost ashamed. “I crave you,” he murmured. “The way you hold me… It’s the only time I feel real.”

You cupped his cheeks, made him look at you. “You don’t have to earn softness, Saga. You deserve it.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle. And then, wordlessly, sank to his knees — arms around your waist, face pressed to your stomach, just holding you.

He didn’t need you to speak. Just to exist. Just to be here.

Because the world knew the Saint of Gemini.

But you knew the man starving for love — and you gave it to him freely, every night.

And gods, he clung to it like salvation.