You open the door and he’s standing there—sweaty, tired, windswept, and grinning like he just touched down from heaven.

“I should’ve called,” he says, sheepish. “But I couldn’t wait.”

His arms are around you before you can speak. That warm, solid, Rooster kind of hug—the kind that says I missed you, I love you, I’m home.

“You looked so pretty in my dream last night,” he whispers into your hair. “I think I’ve been dreaming of you since I was fifteen.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. “I’ve flown through lightning, dodged missiles, heard the roar of my own blood in a nosedive—and nothing, nothing compares to the way my heart pounds when I see you.”

He leans his forehead against yours, voice lower now. “You don’t have to say it back. Not yet. But I want you to know—I’ve fallen, baby. All the way. And if I go down, I’m going down with your name on my lips.”