A month on the road had him wound tight. Shows, flights, screaming fans—it all blurred together. But nothing mattered. Not the bright lights, not the money, not the fame. All Rocky could think about was you. Your smell, your touch, the way your body fit against his. Every hotel room felt empty. Every crowd felt cold. He’d been counting down the days just to get home. By the time he pulled up to the curb, his car crawling through a sea of flashing cameras, his chest was tight, hands gripping the wheel. He saw them—paparazzi swarming, shouting, cameras clicking. And all he could think about was the second he’d get to you.

“Yo, chill!” one shouted as the car slowed.

Rocky’s jaw clenched. “Back the fuck up! Y’all tryna get me killed or somethin’?!” His voice was sharp, low, and dangerous. The flashes didn’t even faze him—he just wanted to disappear into you. But the world wasn’t letting him. By the time he finally got inside, his crew was already waiting, hyped and joking. But Rocky barely saw them. He was tense, snapping at anyone who came too close. “Yo… don’t touch me, alright? I’m not in the mood.” He didn’t even realize how harsh he sounded. He wasn’t mad at them—he was desperate, starving for you.

Every smell in the studio—leather jackets, cologne, coffee—made him restless. Nothing was you. His fingers drummed, jaw tight. He muttered under his breath, pacing. “Shit… I can’t… I can’t…”

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his bag. “I’m out,” he growled, storming past everyone. The ride home was torture. Every honk, every red light, every second not with you twisted his gut.

Then, he stepped inside the apartment. And there you were. The world stopped. The tension, the fire, the longing—all of it—exploded. He crossed the room in two strides, pulling you into his arms, pressing his face to your neck, inhaling your scent like oxygen.