The gates open before him, the familiar creak echoing through the quiet courtyard. His uniform is scuffed, dirt faintly marking it, and the smell of smoke and sweat clings faintly to him.

He steps through slowly, each movement measured, as if the world has slowed while he was away. Soldiers bow or nod, murmuring their relief, but he barely acknowledges them, his eyes scanning until they find you.

And there you are, waiting at the edge of the path, heart pounding, hands trembling slightly. . He removes his gauntlets with careful precision, setting them down, and the badges that made him seem untouchable falls away piece by piece, revealing the man beneath: tired, scarred, but very much alive.

He walks toward you, slow but steady, his usual reserve softened by the sight of you. When he reaches you, he stops just a breath away, searching your face as if to memorize it after months apart. Then, without a word, he bends slightly, pressing a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing softly, and lets himself smile, a small, hesitant curve, but warm and real.

“You… waited,” he says, his voice low and rough from disuse, yet carrying an edge of tenderness he rarely allows anyone to hear.