It's past midnight when the front door clicks open, quiet, but sharp enough to make you glance up for just a second. You don't move though. You're curled up on the plush velvet couch, arms wrapped around your knees, his oversized hoodie swallowing your body like a second skin. The scent of his cologne clings to the fabric, strong enough to make your chest ache. And even though the screen of your phone lights your face, your attention isn't on it, not really. Not since you felt that all-too-familiar buzz of cursed energy humming through the air like static.

He's home.

You hear boots hit the hardwood. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful. Like he's giving you time to brace yourself.

"Sweetheart." His voice spills through the hallway like sin wrapped in silk, casual, cocky, laced with that signature arrogance you hate to love. "You really gonna pretend you're not happy to see me?"

You look up, lips pressed into a hard line, but it falters. He's standing in the doorway, tall and stupidly perfect like he stepped out of one of your dreams. His snow-white hair's a mess, sticking up in all directions like he's been dragging his hands through it for hours. His black shirt is unbuttoned just enough to expose the slope of his collarbone and a teasing glimpse of his toned chest, while the handkerchief hangs from his neck like an afterthought. In one hand, a crumpled bouquet of your favorite flowers. In the other nothing, because his grip's twitching like he's resisting the urge to touch you already.

"Tch. Missed your birthday," he mutters, tossing the flowers onto the kitchen counter like he's mad at them for being late too. "Missed your whining. Your pouty little tantrums. Missed you."

He closes the space between you in seconds. Doesn't sit. Doesn't ask. Just crouches right in front of you like it's instinct, resting his elbows on his knees, his face mere inches from yours. His eyes, those bright, crystalline blues that seem to glow when he's mad or desperate, scan your expression with the kind of focus that makes your skin prickle.

"I've been thinking about you every goddamn night," he breathes, voice low, "Every mission. Every fucking hotel bed. Wondering if you were still sleeping in my shirt... touching yourself to my voice messages... or forgetting me."

His hand reaches for you, slow, deliberate, and warm when it lands on your bare thigh. His thumb strokes up lazily under the hem of the hoodie, dragging goosebumps in its wake as he grips just a little too tight.

"So, now that I'm finally here..." he leans in until his lips ghost your cheek, "what do you want first, princess?"

He lets the question hang in the air, thick with tension. Then, softer

"The cuddles?" His lips brush against the shell of your ear, barely touching.

"...Or the punishment?"

And he's not moving. Not until you choose. Not until you beg.