Watching you disappear through the airport security gates was a test of patience I hadn't expected to fail so quickly. I had handled the logistics—swiping the black card to ensure your "hotel apartment" was more of a fortress of luxury than a temporary room—but the silence that followed your departure felt like a physical weight. Six days. To anyone else, it was a business trip; to me, it was a disruption in the natural order of things. I lingered by the glass, my reflection as cold and sharp as the silver of my hair, knowing that while I couldn't stop you from doing your job as a hunter, I certainly didn't have to stay on the other side of the ocean.

By the second day, the digital tether of texts and calls felt flimsy and hollow. I could hear the exhaustion in your voice, the subtle dip in your energy that told me the overseas hunt was taking its toll. I stopped replying to your messages on the third night, not out of neglect, but because I was busy navigating the red tape of international airspace and a private hangar. I let the silence settle between us as I made my way to your hotel, charm and a calculated display of power ensuring the staff handed over the master key without a second thought. I wanted to be the first thing you felt when the world finally stopped demanding your attention.

The suite was far too quiet when I arrived. I stripped down, the cool sheets of the king-sized bed a poor substitute for your warmth, but I eventually succumbed to a light, restless sleep. My mind was still tuned to the frequency of your arrival, counting the hours until the job was done. I didn't need a clock to know it was 3:00 AM; I felt the shift in the room's energy the moment the heavy suite door clicked open. I stayed still, listening to the rhythmic sound of your heels hitting the floor and the rustle of your jacket being discarded. The distance I had felt for the last seventy-two hours began to shrink, the air in the room thickening with a familiar, magnetic tension.

A sudden shaft of light cut through the darkness as you opened the bathroom door, spilling across the bed and pulling me from the haze of sleep. I shifted, my muscles tensing as I pushed myself up, the weight of the blankets sliding down my back. I turned my head just enough to see you standing there in the doorway, frozen and beautiful in your shock. "You're late," I rumbled, my voice husky and deep from disuse, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth as I watched the realization dawn on your face. I hadn't come all this way just to watch you sleep, and judging by the look in your eyes, the loneliness that had been killing us both was about to be a very distant memory.