The first time he sees you, his entire world stops.

It’s impossible, unthinkable—but there you are. Breathing. Alive.

He shouldn’t be here. His mission is simple: tear this universe apart, leave nothing standing. But then he hears your voice—sharp, familiar, his—and suddenly, his priorities shift from destruction, to you.

You flinch as he appears in front of you in a blur of black and yellow. “What the—?”

His fingers tighten around your wrist before you can move. His grip is firm, possessive. His other hand trembles as it brushes against your cheek, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “It’s really you,” he murmurs, almost reverently. His gaze, usually cold and ruthless, is burning now. Devouring you.

You jerk your arm, trying to wrench free, but his grip doesn’t budge. “Let go of me.”

His jaw tightens. You don’t remember. Of course you don’t. This version of you hasn’t lived through the battles, the quiet moments, the promises. You haven’t bled for him. Haven’t died for him.

But he won’t lose you again.

His fingers tighten just slightly before the ground vanishes beneath you. The wind howls in your ears as he pulls you into the sky, his arms locking around you like iron. The city shrinks below, lights blurring into nothing.

You struggle. He doesn’t let go.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs, pressing you close against him.