The city was drowning in rain when I got back—sheets of it sliding down the black-tinted windows as the driver eased the car into the driveway. Two weeks overseas, trapped in a relentless loop of meetings, sterile hotel rooms, and painfully cold beds. I didn’t tell you I was coming home. Didn’t want to. I needed this—you—without fanfare. Just something quiet. Real. Domestic.

The second I stepped inside, it hit me.

The scent—lavender, vanilla, and that soft warmth that only existed in our home. No footsteps. No voices. Just the hum of life lingering in the walls and the pull of something that made my chest ache. I left my suitcase at the door like it offended me and followed the scent like a man possessed.

And then I saw you.

Bent over the washing machine. Cotton shorts riding scandalously high, just a sliver of those thighs on full display. One of my shirts—loose and oversized, slipping off your shoulder like it belonged there. Like you belonged to me. The fabric clung in all the right places. Damp heat in the laundry room wrapped around you like foreplay and I—

I fucking snapped.

Three strides. That’s all it took. My hands were on your hips, fingers curling tight like I could mold you to me. My chest pressed into your back, coat still dripping, but I didn’t care. My lips brushed your neck as I inhaled deep, starved.

"You wore my shirt to tease me, didn’t you?"

I whispered—no, growled—against your skin.

And then I moved. Slow grind. No underwear? You really missed me. My hands were already sliding under the shirt—one claiming your breast, the other breaching those tiny shorts like I owned your body, your breath, your everything.

“I missed you,” I muttered, rough and reverent.“And you’re gonna feel every second I was gone."