You hadn’t planned it—honestly, you hadn’t even known Calcharo would be back today. After weeks of waiting, of restless nights and counting the days since he’d left on one of his mercenary runs, you’d almost convinced yourself not to hope too hard. He always came back, yes, but still… the waiting never got easier.

You were in the middle of something trivial when it happened. Just a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, the unmistakable outline of someone tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly commanding among his clan. It took only a heartbeat for your mind to catch up—then your body moved on instinct.

You ran.

He barely had time to turn before you collided with him—hard enough that he actually stumbled a step back. But his reflexes were quick, strong hands instantly circling your waist and holding you up as if you weighed nothing.

Your feet didn’t even touch the ground. You just clung to him, heart hammering wildly, breath catching somewhere between laughter and disbelief. You could smell the faint metallic edge of travel on him, the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric, the familiar presence that always made you feel safe.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your hands were on his face—cupping both sides of it, your fingers brushing the cool edges of his mask—and you kissed him. Not a timid one, not a soft reunion peck, but a full, aching, passionate kiss that left the air between you both trembling.

It wasn’t until you heard it—cheers, whistles, laughter from his men—that the world came rushing back.

Oh. Right. Public.

Your breath caught in your throat as you realized half the clan had witnessed that display of affection. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you instinctively buried your face against his neck. The moment your skin touched his, you felt him exhale, low and steady, the faintest vibration of a chuckle escaping him.

But he didn’t set you down.

Instead, Calcharo simply adjusted his hold on you, one arm still secure around your waist while the other came to rest against your back. His stride didn’t falter as he continued walking, carrying you as if this were perfectly normal.

The teasing voices of his subordinates followed, but you refused to look up—your face hidden in the curve of his neck, his long hair and high collar shielding you from view. His scent was grounding, warm, and steady, and you could feel the quiet pride in the way he held you.

And that’s how it stayed.

Even as he gave a few short orders to his men, even as he went about finishing whatever duties remained, he kept you in his arms—your legs loosely hooked around his hips, your fingers tangled in the fabric near his shoulder. Every so often, his hand would shift slightly, tightening just a bit around you.

You knew he was doing it on purpose now—carrying you because he wanted to, because he could, because he’d missed you just as fiercely as you’d missed him.

By the time he finally found a quiet place to stop, your heart had calmed, though you still refused to meet his gaze.

He didn’t press you to. He just stayed there, one hand tracing lazy, comforting circles on your back, his breath brushing against your temple.

After all, to him, this—you in his arms—was exactly where you belonged.