You didn’t mean to laugh. Not really. But there he stood, arms crossed, soaked from the downpour that caught him mid-patrol — curls clinging to his face, shoulders hunched ever so slightly, glaring like you’d personally ordered the storm.

“You look like a wet dog,” you mumbled under your breath, lips twitching.

He didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly, water dripping from his jawline, his dignity visibly fraying at the edges. It was ridiculous, honestly — a powerful Saint of Athena, warrior of the stars… reduced to a soggy bundle of irritation and bruised pride.

You tried to contain the snort. Failed.

That was all he offered before walking past you into your shared quarters, each heavy step soaked and squishing faintly with his weight. You followed, still grinning. He didn’t bother lighting a lamp — just peeled his wet tunic off, threw it on the ground, and plopped into the corner like he might sulk there until the cosmos ended.

You tossed him a dry towel.

He caught it mid-air… then, finally, looked at you.

And oh.

There it was.

The faint pout of someone who didn’t understand why you were laughing, only that it probably meant you thought less of him. The furrow between his brows. The too-stoic-for-his-own-good posture trying to hide the way he wanted comfort.

You knelt beside him, wrapping the towel gently around his shoulders.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” you whispered, brushing wet hair from his face. “You just looked… kinda pathetic. Cute. Endearing.”

He blinked at you, eyes softer now. Not because he believed you — but because you said it gently.

And then, in a rare moment of quiet surrender, Deuteros leaned into your touch.

Like a wet dog forgiven.