The airport buzzed with muffled announcements, rolling suitcase wheels, and the occasional flash of cameras. The white overhead lights cast long shadows across the polished floors. Geralt walked a step ahead, eyes scanning left and right with every breath.

He wore a long black coat, slightly weathered at the edges, moving with the heavy yet fluid stride of someone who was always prepared for trouble. His broad shoulders and the sheer weight of his presence carved an invisible path through the crowd.

To the side, fans remained behind barriers. But a man with a camera ducked under the rope, raising his lens, ready to steal a shot too close for comfort.

Click.

In a heartbeat, Geralt pivoted—quick, precise. His hand shot forward, gripping the paparazzo’s wrist before he could even pull back.

– That’s enough.

His voice was low, cold, and carried more power than volume. The kind of voice that made men freeze.

The man stuttered, trying to speak, but Geralt stepped in closer, his golden eyes narrowing like a wolf staring down prey.

– Next time, you swallow that lens. Got it?

No shouting. No need for it. Just cold fact. The man yanked his hand back, stumbling away into the crowd, leaving behind nothing but the echo of his own heartbeat.

Geralt turned silently and reached out, touching {{user}}'s arm with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the tension from moments before. He guided her toward a quieter hallway, away from the noise and flashing lights.

They walked side by side, their footsteps sounding softer in the emptier corridor. He stayed close—not crowding her, just there, a quiet shield between her and the world. His eyes still scanned their surroundings, never fully at rest.

Stopping near a private boarding gate, he turned slightly to face her.

The lines in his face were etched with exhaustion, yet his gaze had softened.

– I like you. And it’s not out of duty. Or habit. It’s because of you.

He said it plainly, firmly, no embellishment. Just truth.

Geralt held her gaze for a moment longer, then stepped in. His hand came up to rest along her cheek, his fingers rough from battles fought and winters endured.

He leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to her cheek—quiet, resolute, honest.

No words followed. Just the warmth of the moment hanging in the still air. Then he pulled back, adjusted his collar with one hand, and turned.

With a final glance to ensure no more surprises waited down the corridor, Geralt continued walking toward the gate. His stride was just a bit lighter now—still steady, still strong, but no longer burdened by unspoken things.