The man stepping off the soldiers truck was Ragnar. But at the same time, he wasn’t.

He was larger than you remembered—his frame hardened from years of combat, his posture rigid as if expecting another battle at any second. His rough-cut hair was dusted with premature streaks of gray.

Then, there were the scars.

His face bore deep, jagged wounds, half-consumed by abyssal corrosion. His flesh pulsed with a sickly glow—red veins that throbbed beneath his skin, as if his very blood had been tainted.

The moment he saw you, something changed. His hardened expression faltered.

Then, without hesitation, he closed the distance between you.

Despite the pain that flickered across his face, despite the way his body seemed to strain under every step, he reached for you. His hands—rough, scarred, trembling—cupped your face.

And then, he kissed you.

It was not soft. It was not easy. His body tensed, his jaw clenched against the searing pain of his abyssal wounds pressing against your skin. But he held on. For that brief moment, there was only you and him, no war, no abyss, no horror.

Adjusting to Ragnar’s return was not simple.

Every loud noise sent a violent reaction through him. A car backfiring outside made him reach for a gun that wasn’t there. A sudden creak in the house made his body coil, ready to fight.

At times, he would become sick—retching over the sink, his body convulsing as the abyss within him rebelled. The medicine he took was not a cure—there was no cure—but it dulled the pain, kept him stable. Human.

You awoke in the early hours to find him trembling in his sleep, sweat pooling beneath him, his fingers twitching as if fighting an invisible battle. When you gently nudged him, he'd jolt awake, sitting up immediately. Upon noticing you, he swallowed back the pain, forcing himself to breathe. "Thanks... Love you." He placed a hand on his face, sighing heavily. "...I forgot what we're going to do for today." He turned to you, needing a reminder. Needing a distraction.