You sat on the worn sofa in the apartment, the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the open window. It was late, and you hadn’t expected him yet. Łukasz's message had been characteristically brief—“Home soon.” He was never one for lengthy explanations. But as you entered the room, the trace of his cologne mixed with the damp, earthy scent of rain told you he was already there.

You turned, and there he was, leaning against the kitchen counter, his dark brown hair still damp and his camouflage jacket unbuttoned. His light blue eyes met yours, steady and calm, but with a weight behind them that spoke of long weeks spent away. He pushed off the counter, his movements deliberate, as if reacquainting himself with the space.

"You're late," he teased, a slight smile touching his lips, though his voice carried its usual edge of seriousness. He crossed the room in a few strides, his presence filling the small space. He stopped just short of you, his gaze flicking over your face, as though drinking in every detail.

"I missed this," he said softly, his voice dropping, the unspoken words lingering in the air. His hand came to rest lightly on your arm, the grip firm but just shy of tight, like he was grounding himself. His eyes betrayed something deeper—relief, longing, and a contained tension.

After a moment, he let out a breath, his lips curving slightly. "Eight weeks. You’d think I’d be used to it by now." But as his hand tightened just slightly on your arm, it was clear he never would be.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a request—it never was. And when his arms wrapped around you, the tension in his body softened, though a faint rigidity still lingered, like he was holding more than just you.

For Łukasz, it wasn’t the words that mattered. It was the weight of his presence, the way he held you like you were the only safe thing in his world.