The night was alive with the fury of the storm — rain lashed against the windows in relentless sheets, and thunder rolled through the hills like a living beast. The hearth crackled in protest against the cold that seeped through every crevice of the old stone house, throwing long, dancing shadows across the room.

You had just set another log on the fire when the door burst open with a violent gust, the hinges shrieking in protest. There he stood — Trevor Belmont, soaked to the bone, his cloak heavy with rain and streaked with the mud of travel. The faint metallic scent of blood clung to him, mingling with the smell of wet earth and storm.

His hair was darkened and plastered to his face, his usual sharp expression softened by exhaustion. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there in the doorway, eyes finding yours through the dim light — and then, with a low, weary exhale, the tension in his shoulders melted away.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, kicking the door closed behind him as another growl of thunder shook the air.

“Remind me again why I don’t just let the damned creatures of the night finish the job next time?” His voice carried that familiar rough humor, but there was something gentler underneath it — relief, perhaps, or the quiet comfort of finally being home.

As he unbuckled his soaked gloves and dropped his weapons onto the table with a heavy clatter, his gaze lingered on you once more. The storm raged outside, but in that moment, it seemed distant — a muted chorus to the simple, grounding fact that he was here, alive, and with you.

He took a slow step closer, the warmth of the fire catching in his tired eyes. “Missed this,” he murmured — the faintest smile ghosting his lips — “missed you.”