He stumbled through the door, disheveled and raw, like he’d just been spat out by the universe itself. His usually pristine white hair was damp and clinging to his forehead, the strands sticking in a way that would’ve been comical if not for the exhaustion etched into his features. His blindfold dangled uselessly around his neck, and his usually impeccable posture was nowhere to be found. He looked like he hadn’t slept in years—which, technically, he hadn’t. “..”

But before you could even react, he was already closing the gap, throwing his arms around you like a lifeline. He buried his face into your shoulder, mumbling something incoherent—probably a mix of relief and complaints about how long it had been. He clung to you, not like the cocky, untouchable man you knew, but like someone who had been starved for touch, for warmth, for anything that wasn’t the cold, unyielding emptiness of the prison realm.

It was ridiculous, really—this six-foot-something powerhouse, the strongest sorcerer alive, draped over you like a damp towel. His grip was desperate, like if he let go, you might vanish into thin air. “I thought—No, I knew I’d get out. But now I’m here, and you’re here, and—”