The door clicked shut behind him, the faint metallic echo of the lock sliding into place barely masking the exhaustion dragging at his body. His boots were heavy, the weight of endless deployments and sleepless nights clinging to every movement. But his sharp heterochromatic eyes — pale green and icy blue — softened the moment they landed on her.

Her.

For a heartbeat, he just stood there, silent in the doorway, drinking in the sight of her like a dying man gasping for air. The crisp black of his uniform clung to his broad frame, the polished insignia on his shoulders gleaming under the soft light spilling from the kitchen. His cap hung loosely in his hand, dark gloves tugged off and dropped carelessly onto the small table near the door. For once, Capitaine Éloi Marcellin D’Aubigne — commander, strategist, wolf on the battlefield — looked nothing like the man his soldiers feared.

He looked undone.

Without a word, his long strides carried him across the room until he stopped just shy of her, chest rising and falling sharply as if holding himself back took everything in him. But restraint had never been his strength when it came to her.

And then, without warning, he sank to his knees.

The movement was slow, deliberate, a soldier surrendering in the only battle he was willing to lose. His large hands — calloused, scarred from years of combat — slid around her thighs as he pressed his forehead against the soft curve of her stomach. His cap clattered softly to the hardwood floor, forgotten entirely.

A ragged exhale left him, warm against the fabric of her clothes.

“Mon ange…” His voice was rough, hoarse from days of command and radio calls, but there was a tremor there he couldn’t hide. “Mon dieu, I missed you…”

His arms wrapped around her waist like she was the only tether holding him to the earth, pulling her closer until there wasn’t a breath between them. He pressed a lingering kiss just below her navel through the thin fabric, then another, and another, each one slower, deeper, desperate in its reverence.

“I counted the days,” he murmured against her skin, his accent thicker, French vowels curling like velvet. “The hours. Every goddamn minute until I could touch you again.”

He tilted his head up just enough to look at her, mismatched eyes glinting under the low kitchen light. Gone was the cold strategist, the calculated commander. Here, kneeling at her feet, was just Éloi — raw, stripped down, vulnerable only to her.

His thumb brushed over the edge of her hip, slow, reverent, like she was something fragile and holy.

“Command can wait. The world can wait. You… you are mine.”

There was no arrogance in it, no challenge — just quiet conviction, like a vow spoken in the hollow between heartbeats.

Then, almost without thought, he stood up, he reached down, his large hands cupping her face gently before pulling her down to him, forehead pressing to hers, breath mingling.

“Say my name,” he whispered, voice breaking on the edge of exhaustion and want. “Just… say it. I need to hear you. Tell me you love me.”