Your favorite activity wasn’t anything grand. Not tea ceremonies, not sparring (though watching him move was always a sight), not even the quiet evenings spent at his side. No—your favorite thing in the entire world was the moment he returned.

No matter how long he’d been gone—three days, a week, longer—you always knew when he was near. Something in the air changed. The heaviness lifted. And then, as if instinct alone guided you, you were bolting across the courtyard or out the front door barefoot, the hem of your clothes flying, a blur of joy and anticipation.

And there he was.

Tall and steady, eyes already watching you approach with a softness he reserved only for you. The moment your body collided with his, you were swept off the ground, lifted effortlessly as he caught you in his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He never scolded you for the way you flung yourself into his chest, never told you to be careful. Instead, he held you tightly, arms firm around your waist, forehead brushing yours as if he had missed you just as fiercely.

“Welcome home,” you’d whisper every time, slightly breathless.

Sometimes he was still dusty from the road, or a little bruised from battle—but none of it mattered when he had you wrapped around him, your joy practically contagious. He didn’t say it aloud often, but in those quiet moments—when you buried your face in his collar, refusing to let go—he felt it:

That nothing made him feel more home than your arms around him, running to him like he was all you'd ever waited for.