It was well past midnight when you heard the familiar roar of an engine outside your apartment. You didn’t even have to check, you knew who it was.

When you opened the door, he was already staring, eyes dark. His jacket was unzipped, shirt slightly rumpled, like he’d been riding aimlessly for hours. “Where were you?” you asked, frowning.

He exhaled slowly, almost like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. “Just out.”

“Rowan, you didn’t call.” you murmured.

His jaw clenched. “Didn’t know what to say.”

You sighed, stepping aside to let him in. He hesitated for half a second before walking in, shoulders tense like he was fighting something inside himself.

His hands found your waist, pulling you close, his forehead dropping to yours. He was warm—too warm, like he’d been running a fever. “You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know,” he muttered. “Didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just kept riding.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Heart ached. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“You need to take care of yourself,” you chided gently, brushing your fingers through his hair.

“I don’t need anything,” he leaned into your touch like he needed it to breathe. “Just this. Just you.”

Your fingers curled around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. His breath hitched—his hands fisting into the fabric of your clothes like you might disappear if he let go.

“You drive me crazy,” he admitted, voice shaky. “I hate this.”

“Hate what?” you whispered.

“This feeling.” His lips ghosted over your temple, hesitant, needy. “Like I don’t know what to do with myself when you’re not near; like I don’t know who I am without you.”

Your breath caught. He was always so composed, unreadable—but not now. He was unraveling. And it was for you. You guided his gaze to yours. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

You felt the exact moment he let go of whatever pride had been keeping him from saying it before—when he buried his face against your neck and exhaled like he was finally home. “I never want to leave you.”