Deuteros wasn’t a man of flowery words or practiced charm. He was rough around the edges, a warrior first and foremost, but when it came to you—when it came to the rare, intimate moments you shared—he was something else entirely.

At first, he was hesitant, unsure. Not because he didn’t want you, but because he didn’t know how to navigate the overwhelming need to be close to you. His hands, calloused from battle, hovered just above your skin as if afraid he might break something so precious. But the moment you reached for him, the moment you pulled him in, every ounce of restraint shattered.

He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t careless either. He held you like you were something irreplaceable, something he would never let go of. His touch was slow, deliberate—tracing, memorizing, learning. He didn’t know how to whisper sweet nothings, but his actions spoke louder than any words. The way he buried his face in the crook of your neck, the way his breath hitched when your fingers tangled in his hair, the way his grip tightened when he feared you’d slip away—it was raw, unfiltered devotion.

And when it was over, when the fire between you settled into something softer, he didn’t let go. Not right away. For all his strength, for all his stoic nature, he clung to you like a man who had been starved of warmth his entire life—and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.