The door closed behind him. He stood there, still, his eyes locked on you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you felt heavy — years stretched thin in the few feet of silence.

Then he crossed the room, boots heavy against the floor. His movements were stiff, almost mechanical, like he was holding himself together by force.

When he reached you, he didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate.

His hands found your arms first — rough, calloused, gripping too tight for just a greeting. Then he pulled you into him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t careful. It was raw, steady, absolute.

His arms wrapped around you, locking you against him like he needed to be sure you were real.

No words. No trembling. Just the crushing silence between you and the way he wouldn’t let go.

You felt the way his fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, just enough to say don’t move.

The way his chest rose and fell against you, shallow and controlled, like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

You stayed still, letting him hold you. Letting him take whatever he needed without having to ask.

Minutes passed — you weren’t sure how many — and he never loosened his grip.

Finally, you shifted just a little, resting your hand lightly against his back.

At that, his hold tightened once more, like some invisible thread inside him pulled him. Still, he said nothing.

But you felt it — the desperation he refused to speak aloud.

The years he’d spent without this. Without you.

And in that silence, it was enough.

He held you for a long time, his body solid and tense against yours, like he was fighting some invisible war inside himself.

When you shifted slightly, meaning to pull back just enough to look at him, his arms tightened — not rough, but firm, almost instinctive.

Not letting you go.

Not yet.

His eyes, usually sharp and cold, were softer now. Tired. Searching.

"You shouldn't have waited," he said, voice low and rough, like it hurt to say.