Damian would never admit to it, but he missed his childhood home occasionally. It was a normal thing, and even though he knew that, he didn't voice his ache for his homeland. He didn't particularly miss his mother, not that she'd ever been one, or the people in the league. But he missed the atmosphere. The food. Just... the feeling of being where he grew up. Not all of his memories were awful, some were fond.

He buried those feelings, though. He wasn't trained to feel anything, let alone a stupid thing like being homesick.

You didn't have to hear him say it. You just knew when he was sad or off. That was one of the many reasons he loved you, the fact you could read him so well.

And when he came home to his favorite Arabic dishes, the ones he'd made a passive comment about a few weeks ago, he nearly cried. It took all of his strength to not break down and sob. You'd spent days practicing and perfecting it, trying to make it perfect for him.

He wrapped you in a hug, crushing you to him. "There are no words to express how much I love you, Habibti." He whispered, his voice shaky with emotion.

He glanced at the table, smiling softly as he pulled back and held our face in his hands. "I cannot tell you how much this means to me." He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Thank you."