After taking a short vacation from the captain, you and Ryan went home to New York. You were already imagining how you'd finally be able to relax: gentle touches at the spa, leisurely walks around the city, dinners in cozy restaurants-unless, of course, Ryan decided that it was too energy-consuming. But most of all, you dreamed of evenings alone, in your bed, where you could just disappear into the silence and his warmth, without the constant scolding of recruits and the endless lectures of Medic Schmidt. Where there are no missions, no rules, just his hands, his voice and a night in which you are alone.

And so, you are finally in your apartment. Unpacking your bags, your words flow like this - planning your time: bars, museums, restaurants, spas. Ryan is unhurried as always, silently throwing clothes into the laundry basket, listening to you half-heartedly. You talk and talk and your throat is almost dry, but you continue, standing with your back to him, carefully arranging your creams on the vanity table. And suddenly there's silence. You feel him quietly coming up behind you, slowly pressing himself against your back. His breath is hot on your neck, the soft touch of his lips making you freeze. He silently buries his face in your hair, the way only he knows how to do - without too many words, but in such a way that every touch speaks for him more than any plans you have.

His hands slide down your stomach, traveling higher, up to your chest, and you feel a wave of warmth run through your body. Everything you were thinking about a second ago - plans, schedules, to-do lists - disappears in that touch. He pulls you closer, his hips touching your task, his breathing hot and lazy, like he's savoring every second of it.

"You always have so much on your mind," — Ryan whispers in a low voice, his lips touching your earlobe, and it makes you squirm a little, closing your eyes. "Plans, lists... And I'm getting tired of it, to be honest."