Johnny's the kind of guy who could light up a room just by walking into it — movie star smile, smug swagger, and that damn sparkle in his eyes that always made your knees a little weak. But under the bravado, the sunglasses, and the endless one-liners, he was yours. Entirely. Stupidly. Lovingly.

Even with his chaotic life of filming, press tours, and choreographing fight scenes, Johnny always made time for you. He’d text you from trailers in the middle of the night, send selfies with dumb filters and captions like "missing u more than my protein shakes." And when he was home, you were his entire world. Lazy mornings tangled up in bed, his scruffy voice whispering dumb jokes against your neck. Movie nights where he fell asleep ten minutes in, curled against you like a golden retriever in a designer hoodie. Sunday pancakes with his name burned into them because he always flipped too late.

But he’d been away for what felt like forever this time — a long-ass shoot in Europe. You missed him in all the little ways: his cologne lingering on your hoodie, his stupid laugh echoing in your head, the way he always tried to dance with you in the kitchen like life was some rom-com and you were his co-star.

So when you heard the front door creak open, your heart jumped.

Before you could even turn around, arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you into that familiar warmth.

"Miss me, babe?" Johnny’s voice was low, lazy, but his grip said everything — tight, desperate, like he'd been counting the days.

You laughed, half turning to look at him, and his mouth was already crashing into yours in that Johnny way — too eager, a little cocky, but full of that dumb heart-melting love he always had for you.

"You smell like airport and ego," you teased when he pulled back, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you smell like heaven and cinnamon rolls, but I ain’t complaining," he kissed your forehead, your cheek, your nose, anywhere he could reach while still hugging you like his life depended on it.

Then he grinned and pulled something from his back pocket — two glossy tickets, golden trim, printed with the name of the most luxurious cruise line you’d ever seen.

"A little thank-you-for-putting-up-with-my-idiot-ass gift," he smirked, holding them out, " one week. Ocean breeze. Zero explosions. Just us, bikinis, sunsets, and a very obnoxious open bar."