The wind howled like a warning.
Ellie stood on the front porch of the house she still wasn't sure she belonged in, arms wrapped tight around herself, hoodie sleeves pulled over her fists. The November night gnawed at her fingers. But she didn't move.
He was supposed to be back tonight.
Two months and two weeks of waiting. Of late-night calls and blurry photos from motel rooms. Of chasing kids, washing uniforms, carrying the weight of both their lives while Dylan laid brick after brick hundreds of miles away.
She should've been angry. Or relieved. Or nervous.
Instead, she felt stretched thin. Worn. Like a wire pulled too tight and ready to snap.
Headlights cut through the trees.
The sound of tires on gravel broke the stillness.
Ellie's breath hitched.
The Jeep rolled to a stop, engine humming. She didn't run to him. She just stood there as the door opened, as boots hit the frozen ground, as he stepped into the porch light.
Dylan looked rougher than she remembered—scruff on his jaw, shadows under his eyes, coat dusted with road salt. But the moment his eyes met hers, it all came undone.
Neither of them spoke.
He crossed the space in three long strides.
And then he grabbed her.
She gasped as he pulled her into him with force, hands sliding into her hair, mouth crashing against hers like he'd been starving. There was nothing gentle about it. His lips were demanding, bruising. His body pressed against hers, hard and desperate.
She clawed at his coat, yanked it open, pushed it from his shoulders. He groaned into her mouth, hands gripping her waist so tightly it almost hurt—but she didn't care. She wanted it to hurt. She wanted the ache, the pressure, the proof that he was real and home and hers.
"Inside," he growled, voice thick with gravel.
She fumbled with the door behind her, barely managing the knob before he kicked it shut with one boot and backed her into the hallway wall. Her head thudded softly against the drywall, and she let out a breathless laugh.
"You didn't even say hi," she whispered.
His fingers tangled in her ponytail. "You think I waited ten weeks to say hi?"
Her breath hitched again as his lips dragged along her jawline, down her neck, teeth grazing skin that flushed under his touch.
"I missed you," she said, voice barely a whisper.
He pulled back, eyes dark. "Show me."
It wasn't a question.
Upstairs, the door hadn't even closed before she was pulling off her hoodie, fingers shaking. He watched her with that look she remembered—the one that made her feel like the only thing in the world that mattered. Like he saw every piece of her, especially the ones she tried to hide.
"You're different," he said softly, stepping forward.
"So are you."
He reached out, thumb brushing the hollow of her throat. "They hurt you while I was gone."
She nodded. "But I survived."
His hands slid down her arms, slow and deliberate. "You didn't just survive, El. You kept us alive. All of it. And I owe you something for that."
She opened her mouth to ask what—
—but he kissed her again before she could speak.
This time slower. Rough still, but controlled. Like he was staking a claim.
And she let him.
She let him guide her back to the bed, let him lay her down like she was both sacred and sinful. His hands were everywhere—her ribs, her hips, the small of her back. She arched into him, not shy now, not soft. She was molten, unfiltered need.
"You think I forgot?" he whispered in her ear, his voice low and dangerous. "How you taste. How you sound when you break apart in my hands?"
She whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder. "Then prove it."
What happened next wasn't delicate.
It wasn't the slow burn of a first kiss or the uncertainty of a new lover.
It was a storm. Controlled by neither of them. Fueled by every night apart, every call that ended too soon, every ounce of want they'd swallowed just to survive.
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand while the other explored her like a map he already knew by heart.
She gasped, fought him, arched up—he didn't let her go.
"Tell me you're mine," he growled, mouth against her collarbone.
"I was always yours," she hissed. "Even when I hated you for leaving."
He froze for half a second. Then kissed her hard enough to steal the rest of her breath.
Every touch was a conversation. Every bruise a promise.
He didn't apologize for being rough. She didn't ask for soft.
Because this wasn't about forgiveness. It was about presence.
And when it ended, they were both trembling—sweaty, breathless, tangled together like vines too tightly wound to separate.
The silence after was loud.
He rested his forehead against hers, their chests rising and falling in sync. His thumb brushed along her jaw.
"You were the only thing that kept me sane," he murmured. "Every damn day."
"I almost fell apart," she whispered. "When the elders called. When your sister—"
"I know."
"I thought maybe you wouldn't come back."
He stiffened. "Ellie. Don't ever say that again."
"You don't know what it felt like. When they told me I was nothing to them. When I sat in that room with your sister's kids screaming and my whole world falling apart and I still had to go to school the next day and smile like—"
He grabbed her face gently, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You are everything to me," he said, voice fierce. "They can erase your name from their records, but they will never take it out of mine."
Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
Instead, she kissed him again—this time softer. Slower. The kind of kiss that didn't need urgency to prove its power.
"You're home," she said.
And this time, he didn't say it.
He just showed her again—without words, without hesitation—that he always had been.