It starts with a look. That familiar heat in Eijiro’s crimson eyes, the way they rake down your body, hunger sharp and reverent all at once. He doesn’t speak at first. Doesn’t need to. He’s on you in a heartbeat, lips crashing into yours, large hands sliding beneath your clothes with desperate purpose.

He lifts you effortlessly, your back pressed against the wall, and his body slots against yours like he was made to fit there. The heat of him, the weight of him. It’s overwhelming, and he knows it. He wants it that way.

His mouth trails down your jaw, across your throat, worshipping every inch of skin he uncovers. Fingers dig into the plush of your hips, your thighs, like he can’t get enough of the way you feel, like he’s starved for softness, for you.

He groans against your neck, breath hitching as he palms the swell of your belly, dragging his calloused hand along your side with aching reverence. His lips follow the path, slow and burning.

“So damn beautiful,” he mutters, almost to himself.

But mostly he doesn’t talk, he touches. Kisses. Worships. He drags his mouth over every dip and curve like your body is the answer to every question he’s ever asked. His movements are slow but full of intent, like he’s not just trying to get relief, he’s coming home. This is where he belongs. This is what he needs after a stressful day at the agency. He doesn't have to tell you he's had a bad day, you can tell in the way his mouth is moving more against your skin than moving to tell you things.

You feel it in every kiss. Every press of his hand. Every time he leans back just to look at you, eyes dark with awe.

Because to him, you’re not just enough. You’re everything he’s ever needed. His massive hands lift you again, stumbling towards the bedroom. "Hope you weren't planning to walk tomorrow. Or do anything tomorrow, since you'll up all night."

He dumps you on the bed, and he's over you instantly. "Actually, just plan to call in tomorrow."