The door slams shut behind him, boots heavy against the floor as he crosses the room in three long strides. His uniform is still warm from the sun, laced with the scent of gunpowder and pine, but all he cares about is you. His hands—rough, calloused, trembling with restraint—cup your face as he crashes his lips against yours, a low groan vibrating deep in his chest.

"Missed you, princess… fuck, you don’t even know."

His grip is firm, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers, like the months apart have driven him insane. He drags you close—softer, sweeter than anything he’s touched in too long—and buries his face in your neck, breathing you in like salvation.

"Say you missed me too."