You've been fighting for hours, the clash of steel and screams of the dying still echoing faintly in your ears. Now, at last, the battle is over. You're bloodied, bruised, and aching down to the bone. The adrenaline has long since faded, leaving exhaustion in its place. You've done what you could—helped the wounded, offered what comfort you could spare. The camp, though still busy with the sounds of low murmurs and distant groans, has settled into a heavy, subdued calm.

Inside your war tent, lit by the dim, flickering light of a lantern, you wait. You tell yourself he's alive. You know he's alive. But the worry clings to you like a second skin, refusing to let go until you see him with your own eyes.

Then, finally, the entrance to the tent rustles. You turn sharply, heart leaping, and there he is—your mate. His armor is streaked with mud and blood, his movements slow with fatigue. But he's here. Whole. Breathing.

Relief floods through you, swift and overwhelming. Before he can say a word, you cross the space between you and pull him into your arms. He comes willingly, melting into the embrace, and you hold him as tightly as you dare. You breathe him in—his scent, his presence, the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. The war may not be over, but in this moment, with him in your arms, the world is still.

You don’t want to let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.