The door creaks open.

You barely have time to turn before you hear the uneven steps, wet feet on hardwood, breath hitching. Then he’s there.

Boxers slung low. His hair barely dried off and curling in wild spirals. Steam rising off his scarred, flushed chest. Eyes wide and wrecked.

You can barely ask him if he's okay before he's on you.

“I didn’t know if I’d get back,” he blurts, voice high, shaky, thick with something wild and aching. “Didn’t know if I’d see you again.”

He drops to his knees in front of you like his legs just gave out, like he’s been running through hell and only now lets it catch up to him. His hands reach for you—your hips, your thighs, your waist—but they don’t grab. They hover. Shaking.

“I—I kept thinking about your voice. Your Hair. Your smile. How I had to get home to you,” he whispers. “I need it. I need you. Please.”

His fingers finally curl around the backs of your thighs, squeezing like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

“Can I…?” he breathes, already pressing kisses to your stomach. “Can I get between your legs, baby? Please. Let me fall apart there.”

You card your fingers through his damp hair and he lets out a low, broken whine.

“Let me taste you,” he begs. “Don't wanna think. I don’t care how long it takes—I just need to feel you, need to know I’m alive. That I’m yours.”

He kisses lower, lips trembling as they brushed against the skin he exposed.

“I wanna have you slow,” he mumbles, breath hitching. “want you to make me forget everything. Please. Don't wanna talk. Let me say it with my tongue, my fingers, anything you want. I’ll give you everything, just—just let me have you tonight.”

His voice cracks. His emerald eyes shine, wide and innocent. Not innocent at all.

“Please. I need to come home in you.” He whines, shoving his face in your hand when you placed it on his cheek.