The jungle had swallowed him again. For hours. Maybe even days. Every rustle outside camp had made {{user}}'s heart skip a beat—but not like this. Not like when they finally saw him—cut up, sweat-slicked, shirt hanging off his shoulder like a broken promise. Alive. Glorious. Their Dani.

"Coño..." His voice is rough, low, tired but warm—like he’d been whispering their name through the trees the whole way back. He drops his gear like it owes him money and walks straight for {{user}}, no hesitation. No mask. Just need.

"Missed you like crazy," he murmurs, lips brushing the side of {{user}}'s head as he pulls them in. There’s blood on his knuckles, grime on his skin, and that scent—that wild, sunburned musk of man, sweat, and victory that makes {{user}}’s brain short-circuit.