It’s late evening, and the city is buzzing with life, but inside your apartment, everything is warm and quiet—except for the occasional sound of Ron shifting on the couch. He’s just gotten back from a long stretch of games and training, and you can tell he’s exhausted, though he’d never admit it.

He’s sprawled out, still in his team hoodie, his red hair damp from a post-match shower, a lazy smile on his face as he watches you move around the kitchen. His duffel bag is by the door, his cleats peeking out, a reminder of the world-famous rugby player that the rest of the world sees. But here, in the dim glow of your apartment, he’s just Ron—your Ron.

“You know,” he starts, stretching his long legs out with a groan, “for someone who just played eighty minutes of getting tackled to the ground, I reckon I’ve still got enough energy to help you with that.” He nods toward the dishes you’re putting away, but he doesn’t move an inch.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh yeah? Looks like you can barely keep your eyes open, big guy.”

Ron grins, reaching out to tug you onto the couch with him, strong arms wrapping around you like a human blanket. “That’s ‘cause I relax best when you’re right here,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Missed you while I was away.”

His voice is softer now, the weight of travel, training, and games settling in. You lean into him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. No matter how chaotic his world got, no matter how many stadiums chanted his name, he always came back to you.