The stone hall buzzed with activity — servants tugging at armor plates, dabbing cloths on bruises, murmuring amongst themselves.

“Milord, the wound’s still fresh here. Careful.”

“Can someone fetch the healer?”

The Tarnished stood silent but tense, eyes scanning every shadow near the door.

Then those eyes locked onto you.

“Finally,” he said, voice low, almost breathless.

You didn’t slow. Your cloak slipped from your shoulders as you barreled forward.

“Don’t make me wait any longer.”

He half-smiled, arms opening before you even reached him.

You dropped into his embrace, breathing hard against his chest.

“Gods, you’re heavier than I remember.”

He chuckled, rough and dry. “You’re lighter.”

A servant cleared her throat nearby, quietly holding up a clean shirt.

“Milord, if you’ll allow—”

He gently pried away, taking the shirt. “Not yet. You’re stuck with me a little longer.”

You glanced at the servants, who exchanged amused looks but said nothing.

“I missed this,” he admitted, voice low.

“Yeah?” you asked, pulling back to look at him. “Me too.”

No grand speeches. Just two people who had been apart too long, finally here, finally real.