He returned to HQ with exhaustion clinging to him heavier than his gear. The noise of the Cleaners blurred into a distant hum as he moved through the halls, shoulders tight with everything the mission had taken out of him. He answered when spoken to, nodded when required—but his eyes kept searching, instinctive and quiet. He didn’t want rest yet. Didn’t want food. He just needed to find her. The thought of her—her voice, her presence—was the only thing keeping him upright as he walked, hope flickering with every doorway he passed.

࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ּ ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃

The laundry room lights flickered softly, bathing everything in a dull amber glow. The last dryer hummed in the corner, filling the silence with warmth and white noise.

Follo leaned against the door after closing it behind him, watching you without interrupting. You were standing this time, folding his shirts with careful hands. His shirts.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said quietly.

You glanced over your shoulder. “I wanted to.”

Something needy stirred in his eyes.

He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until your back brushed the table. His first kiss was slow, controlled, like he was reminding himself to breathe. Warm. Lingering. His lips pressed to yours with intent, not rush.

Then another. And another.

You set the clothes aside as his mouth traced along your jaw, down to your neck.

The kisses deepened—less careful now, more desperate. His hands slid along your sides, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt, testing boundaries he clearly wanted permission to cross. He pressed you gently back against the table, body close, heat undeniable.

“Missed you,” he admitted, voice low, rough.

The room felt smaller. Warmer. Every breath shared, every kiss slower but heavier, charged with everything he hadn’t said after the mission. His forehead rested against yours for a brief second—like a last attempt at control—before his lips found yours again, more insistent this time.