He was home. Finally.

And that made him the perfect victim.

You had missed him—totally missed him. So who better to smother with affection, to make up for every sleepless night of waiting, than Jiyan himself?

At first, it was harmless pecks. Quick little kisses across his cheek, his jaw, even his temple. But one peck turned into two, then into five, and soon it had spiraled into a full hour of you doting on him like he was your personal hostage.

He didn’t fight you. Oh no, Jiyan just sat there on the couch, utterly still, as if surrendering to his fate. His strong hands rested on your thighs while you straddled him, and though his body was rigid at first—disciplined, as always—there was no denying the subtle way his breath hitched whenever your lips brushed his skin.

A soldier starved for touch. That’s what he was. And you were happy to drown him in it.

Eventually, your kisses trailed down to his mouth, and this time you lingered—an actual kiss, deep and insistent. Jiyan’s composure cracked just slightly, his arms tightening around your waist, holding you closer as though the world outside didn’t exist.

When you finally pulled back, he exhaled slowly, his eyes soft but his voice gruff, “Are you quite finished holding me hostage?”

You only grinned, leaning in again. “Not even close.”

And for once, Jiyan didn’t mind being your prisoner.