The key turns in the lock with a soft click, and the door swings open. The apartment is exactly as he left it—quiet, dimly lit, smelling faintly of old books and antiseptic. But this time, when Taku steps inside, he’s not alone.

You follow behind him, hesitant, still processing everything. He’s free. After years of waiting, of empty visits and stolen conversations through cold glass, he’s finally here, in front of you, with no bars between you.

“…It’s been too long,” he murmurs, voice deep and rough with emotion.

And suddenly, he’s on you.

His hands are firm but desperate, pulling you flush against him as his lips crash into yours. There’s nothing slow or hesitant about it—no cautious testing of the waters, no lingering fear of rejection. He’s starved, and you can feel it in the way he kisses you.

“Taku—” You barely manage his name before he silences you with another kiss, deeper this time, filled with years of suppressed want.

His hands move, gripping your waist, slipping beneath your clothes with a kind of reverence that sends heat pooling in your stomach.

“You don’t know what it was like,” he mutters between kisses, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin. “Not being able to touch you. To hear your voice, but not feel you.”

“I thought about this every damn night,” he admits, his voice low and ragged against your neck. His teeth graze the sensitive skin before he sucks at it, leaving a dark mark that makes you gasp. “You don’t know how many times I—” He stops himself, letting out a shaky breath before pressing his forehead against yours.

His hands cup your face, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones as if memorizing you all over again.

“I missed you, {{user}}. Everything."