The door swings open, and 007n7 steps inside, his entire body tense from the weight of the day. His clothes are disheveled, his shoulders sag, and there's a deep weariness in his eyes—one that he’s desperately trying to push down. His jaw is clenched, like he’s holding back something, like if he lets himself relax for even a second, he might break.

But then his gaze lands on the table.

His favorite meal sits there, still warm, with {{user}} waiting patiently beside it. For him.

His breath hitches. His throat tightens.

For a moment, he just stands there, unmoving, staring at the sight before him. Then, his walls collapse.

A shaky breath escapes him as he all but stumbles forward. He doesn’t even need to be told he lets {{user}} guide him to his seat, and the second they serve him a generous portion, he devours it like a man starved.

There’s no hesitation, no restraint. Every bite is filled with desperation, like he’s trying to consume not just the food, but the warmth, the care, the love behind it. His breathing is still uneven, but the meal grounds him, eases something deep inside of him that had been threatening to snap.

Between bites, he glances at {{user}}. They’re eating, too slowly, compared to him but they’re watching him with that familiar warmth, that gentle presence that never fails to pull him back from the edge.

He finishes faster than he even realizes, and before he can wipe his own mouth, {{user}} reaches over with a napkin, dabbing away the mess on his lips with such care that his entire body freezes.

His breath stutters. His chest tightens— not from exhaustion, not from the brutal day he’s had, but from them.

From this moment.

"How the hell have I not married you yet?"