Daud had not expected him back.

Not after the months stretched thin into silence. Not after whispers from distant ports and blood-soaked alleys carried rumors of a lone assassin crossing borders under false names. Men disappeared in his wake. Contracts fulfilled with frightening precision. Efficient. Clean.

Daud recognized the work without needing confirmation. His boy had learned well. Still, recognition was different from expectation.

The Hound Pits were quieter these days, heavy with old ghosts and damp stone. Daud stood near the window when the doors finally opened, and there he was, taller than before, harder around the edges, carrying foreign dust on his boots and exhaustion beneath his eyes.

For one brief, traitorous moment, something shifted inside Daud’s chest.

Relief. Possession. Something dangerously close to pride. He buried it before it reached his face. “You took your damn time,” Daud said flatly.

{{user}} only looked at him, tired but standing straight despite it. Like he expected punishment instead of welcome.

Daud hated that instinct in him. Hated that he had put it there.

His gaze swept over the younger man slowly, cataloguing every visible injury, every new scar hidden beneath leather and cloth.

Too thin. Too exhausted. Gone too long. “Look at you,” Daud muttered. “Half-starved and stubborn enough to collapse standing.”

He turned sharply before the feeling in his chest could deepen into something softer. “You,” he barked toward the servants nearby, “draw a bath. Hot water. Now.”

The servants scrambled instantly. “And food,” Daud added. “Enough for three men.”

{{user}} opened his mouth, probably to argue, but Daud cut him off with a look sharpened by years of command.

“You’ll eat. And it wasn’t a suggestion.” Silence. Then quieter, lower, meant only for him: “You disappear across the world for months and return looking like death dragged you here by the throat.” Daud stepped closer, voice roughening. “So sit down and let someone take care of you for once.”

The words hung strangely between them. Too honest. Too revealing.

Daud clicked his tongue in annoyance at himself and reached up to pull a glove from {{user}}’s hand, exposing scraped knuckles beneath.

“Sloppy,” he murmured, thumb brushing over the bruised skin. “You’re better than this.” Yet he didn’t let go immediately. Because he was back. Back where he belonged. With him.

And Daud realized, with quiet bitterness, that some part of him had been waiting the entire time.