The door shut behind him with a quiet finality, the sound barely registering over the hum of adrenaline still running hot in his veins. His shoulders ached from the weight of his gear, tension coiled tight in his muscles, refusing to ease even as the comfort of familiar surroundings settled around him. The mission had been fucked, riddled with complications that should've never happened, mistakes that could've cost lives if not for sheer luck and sharp instincts. He had held it together—pushed down the frustration, forced himself through every second of it with the cold, practised precision he was known for.

But now? Now the restraint was slipping.

His gaze locked onto you the moment he stepped into the hallway of your small apartment. You were standing there, waiting for him, warm and soft and his. That was all it took, his control snapped like a frayed wire stretched too thin for too long.

In a single stride, he closed the distance, hands gripping your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your clothes as if grounding himself in the feel of you. There was no hesitation in the way he pulled you against him, his breath heavy, shoulders rising and falling with the force of it. He needed you close, needed you beneath him, around him, grounding him in the way only you could.

You barely had time to react before he had you in his arms, lifted with ease, carried through the space with that same single-minded determination that had kept him alive through the worst of warzones. Boots thudding heavy against the floor, his grip firm and unyielding, he moved with purpose, and that purpose was you.