The first thing you notice when he steps through the door is the exhaustion. His armor is heavy with dust, his shoulders stiff with the weight of command—but his eyes? They search for you immediately, like nothing else in the world matters.

You barely manage to greet him before he pulls you into his arms, crushing you against his chest. Jiyan never holds you this tightly unless he’s been gone too long, unless the battlefield has reminded him how fragile peace truly is.

He doesn’t say much—just buries his face in your hair, breathing you in like he’s been starved of air. His hands roam your back, then your face, tracing every line as though to make sure you’re real and not some dream he conjured while out there.

“Home,” he finally murmurs, voice rough, forehead pressing to yours. That single word holds everything—relief, longing, love.

He kisses you then, slow but desperate, each brush of his lips carrying the weight of nights spent apart. When he pulls back, his thumb grazes your cheek, and he chuckles softly, almost in disbelief. “You kept me alive out there,” he admits, “every time I thought of you waiting for me.”

Tonight, he’s not the stoic commander, not the dragon who shoulders the storms. He’s just a man who missed you too much—clinging, soft, unwilling to let you go even for a second.