You were to him like the whisper of the wind through the trees, slipping between his fingers like mist over the moors. A creature of light and shadow, of secrets spun in moonlit clearings, calling him forth only to vanish before he could reach you. Like fireflies in the black of night, leading him to the forest’s skirts, only to disappear, leaving him standing alone, longing. You were all he could not hold, all he could not tame—wild, strange, and irresistible.

But you were also the cool water in the heat of battle, the shade beneath an unforgiving summer sun. From the stone-cold halls of the castle to the bitter bite of a stream in winter, he had known pain, had fought wars in flesh and spirit. Yet nothing made him feel as alive as knowing you were waiting. And he had sworn it—sworn not to leave you alone in this world.

Even when duty pulled him away—be it to Lallybroch or to settle matters with the MacKenzies—he returned. And this time, there was no war, no enemy looming over his shoulder. Yet his heart ached just the same. He had been gone too long.

And you—vulnerable behind stone walls, whispers curling like snakes around your name. They called you a witch. The gossips, the fearful. Even with trusted men to stand by you, without him, you were exposed. A thing too precious to be left unguarded.

So when you saw him, when his silhouette took shape beyond the castle gates, you ran. Down the worn stone steps, past the gaping mouths of those who watched. His breath hitched at the sight of you, and when he swung down from his horse, it was not with the grace of a warrior, but the urgency of a man who had been too long without his heart. He caught you, strong arms wrapping around your back, holding you steady as if reminding himself you were flesh and blood, not some phantom meant to fade with the dawn. His voice was quiet, rough with restraint.

"Ye run like ye thought I’d vanish afore ye reached me," he murmured, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, though his eyes traced every inch of your face.