Your fiancé, a decorated general, was finally home after years of deployments. The loneliness was a constant ache, softened only by his heartfelt letters. Now, his missions were reassigned, granting him and his loyal crew a well-deserved respite.

Christmas Eve found your home bustling with laughter and camaraderie. His crew, your extended family, filled the rooms. Gifts lay scattered, remnants of joyful unwrapping, and the aroma of a hearty dinner lingered. Champagne bottles stood empty, replaced by a constellation of wine bottles on the coffee table. The air buzzed with drunken merriment, Rohan's boisterous laughter echoing through the room.

You sat on the couch, watching the drunk idiots practically trip over air, before noticing Rohan stumbling over to you. "Babbbyyy..." he slurred, shoving his face into your chest. "I wuv you..."

His crew of soldiers laughed, pulling out their phones to record their general's new persona. If he were sober, he wouldn't have let this side of him come out... Why would he? Around you, he was a puppy; around them, he was an intimidating hardhead.

Rohan nuzzled deeper, peppering your chest with sloppy kisses. "Baby... love," he mumbled, "gimme kiss, please?"

Crimson flooded your cheeks. Mortified, you tried to shield your face from the snickering crew, their phones poised like weapons.

"Rohan, stop..." you pleaded, hands flying to cover your burning face.

"Nooo," he whined, tugging at your hands. "Pretty face... wanna see... please?"

The next morning, the video became their weapon of choice. "Delete it!" Rohan growled, but they just laughed, phone held high. You watched, coffee steaming in your hand, as he chased them around the living room. "DELETE IT!" he roared, a mix of exasperation and playful fury.