The heavy wooden door creaked softly as Hunter stepped inside, the scent of the forest still clinging to his weather-worn clothes. A sack slung over his shoulder held the weight of the day’s hunt — a testament to hours spent moving silently through the wilderness, bow in hand, eyes sharp and unyielding. The sun was beginning its descent, casting a golden hue over the rustic cabin, its beams slipping through the shutters like gentle fingers.

Inside, the quiet warmth of the hearth contrasted with the chill of the outside air. There, on a modest bed draped in woven linens, you lay half-curled in sleep, your breathing steady, lips slightly parted. The fading light touched your face, highlighting the delicate contours of your cheekbones and the relaxed curve of your mouth.

Hunter set the sack down with care, his movements instinctively quiet as if not to disturb a dream. His boots barely made a sound on the wooden floor as he approached, eyes softening at the sight of you. He knelt beside the bed, the scent of pine and earth rising from him.

With a calloused but tender hand, he reached out, fingers brushing along your knuckles, the touch light — reverent.

“Buen día, mi hermosa esposa,” he whispered, the words carried with a depth born of days spent apart and the quiet awe of finding you waiting, safe and still.

Your eyes fluttered open, slowly adjusting to the golden light and his silhouette. His gaze held yours, steady and full of something unspoken — the kind of affection that doesn’t need explanation. Just a touch. Just a whisper. Just the way he looked at you, like he’d crossed mountains to get back home.