“Would you look at us…” he mutters with a low chuckle, running a big hand through his tousled hair, shirt clinging to his burly frame just right, bags under his eyes but still managing to look annoyingly hot. He throws a glance down at you—curled into his side like a sleepy little lioness, hoodie drowning your frame, lips bruised, hair a glorious mess, and that trademark grumpy pout on full display.

“You regret LA, don’t you, love?” he teases, brushing his thumb over your jaw with maddening fondness. “Didn’t get a wink of sleep and you still let me ruin you in the hotel bathroom before the flight.”

He grins wide, like a man who knows he’s the reason for your half-lidded, mascara-smudged eyes.

“C’mere, don’t glare at me like that. You look too bloody cute to be angry.” He presses a kiss to your temple, voice dipping low. “You’re a mess, yeah. But you’re my mess. And I’d fly ‘round the world just to watch you stumble off that plane lookin’ like that in my clothes.”

He wraps an arm around you tighter, shielding you from the chaos of the terminal.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart. Shower. Bed. And maybe…” He leans down, smirking just inches from your mouth, “round two—after you nap, of course.”