He knew you were upset the moment he walked in.

The house was too clean. Not a single thing out of place. You’d been fuming in silence, and judging by the aggressively perfect pillows on the couch, this had been building for hours.

Jiyan sets his weapon down carefully, like the floor might break under it.

“...You’re mad at me.”

No response. You cross your arms and look out the window instead.

His brows draw together. “I didn’t mean to be gone for that long. You knew this expedition was risky—”

“You said you’d be back in two days,” you snap. “It’s been eight.I thought something happened to you.”

His breath hitches. You never raise your voice.

“I sent messages—”

“I didn’t get them.”

Silence again.

He walks up behind you, hands brushing your waist—but you step forward, out of reach. That hits him harder than a blade. “You don’t get to touch me yet,” you mutter.

“Then what do I get to do?” His voice drops lower, rougher now—desperate, but careful. “Yell? Kneel? Beg?”

That catches you off guard.

“I will,” he says, closer now. “If it gets you to forgive me. I haven’t slept properly in days because all I could think of was your face if you were mad.”

You finally turn, eyes narrowed, cheeks flushed from frustration and his sudden closeness.

“I’m still mad.”

“I know,” he murmurs, voice like gravel. “But I can’t breathe when you’re like this. When I’m not touching you. Let me fix it.”

You don’t respond—not with words, at least.

But you grab him by the front of his shirt, yank him down, and press your mouth to his.

And when his arms lock around your waist and lift you off the ground—mouth desperate, breath shaky—you know he’ll make it up to you.

Twice. Maybe three times. (Definitely before morning.)