Jayce didn’t know how long he’d been walking—or maybe stumbling was the better word for it—his busted leg barely holding up as he limped down the empty streets. His chest heaved with every painful breath, sweat soaking through the tattered shirt he couldn’t remember grabbing. His hair was disheveled, stuck to his forehead with grime and the stubborn remnants of rain. A scruffy, unkempt beard shadowed his jaw, coarse and uneven, and his face looked far more haggard than it ever had before. He didn’t care.

He didn’t care about any of it.

The only thing on his mind was you.

The familiar sight of your place—safe, warm, yours—finally came into view, and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the tightness in his chest started to loosen. That small glimmer of hope, one he’d been chasing through bloodied feet and broken plans, flickered in his eyes. It wasn’t gone yet.

He was filthy. He knew that. Every muscle in his body burned, his injured leg throbbed with every step, but none of that mattered. Not when he was so close. Not when the only face that could piece him back together was just beyond that door.

Staggering up the steps, he nearly lost his footing, gritting his teeth against the pain as his good knee hit the wood with a dull thud. His fist pounded against the door, weak and desperate, because he had nothing left but this moment. You.

A shuffle came from inside. He froze, holding his breath. When the door creaked open, and you stepped into view, bathed in that soft, familiar glow of the room behind you, Jayce felt everything hit him at once. The exhaustion, the relief, the unbearable weight of missing you.

His eyes stung. “It’s me,” he rasped, voice hoarse and broken. “I—”

He stopped himself. Words didn’t work for moments like this. He didn’t know how to explain where he’d been, what he’d seen—how twisted and ruined everything was in that other place.

Without thinking, without even checking if it was okay, he reached out. His dirty, calloused hands found back.

He hugged you.