Francesca didn’t even get to make it fully into the hotel suite before Oscar had her pressed against the door.

His hands were trembling; not with nerves, but with a build up of too much restraint. They pressed flat against the wood on either side of her head and he just looked at her. His chest was rising fast, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears, eyes dark and dangerously tender.

“I don’t—” he started, voice rough, then stopped. Swallowed. His gaze flicked down her body and then back up like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to look. “You look so good, baby.”

Francesca smiled, soft and open, like she’d been waiting forever to hear him say it. It felt like she had. Two weeks without him had felt like an entire lifetime. “Hi,” she whispered.

That was all it took.

He crashed into her, mouth hungry but reverent, hands diving into her hair, fingers digging into her waist, anywhere he could reach.

She whimpered against his mouth, fingers clinging to the hem of his shirt. “Missed you,” she breathed. “Miss you so much, Osc.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His pupils were blown wide, pink spreading across his cheeks in earnest now, embarrassed by how much he needed this. Needed her. His entire world, finally within reach. His heart. His wife. “I—fuck, I missed you too. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Everything made me miss you.” His voice cracked a little, and Francesca?

Francesca melted.

She rose up on her toes, rubbing their noses together, and whispered, “Let me take care of you?”

That did him in.

“Get on the bed,” he said, low and certain, but his hands were still shaking as he helped her out of her jacket, his thumbs ghosting over her arms like she might disappear. “Please, baby.”

She obeyed immediately, crawling back across the sheets, eyes never leaving him. She didn’t want to look away. Didn’t want to miss a single minor reaction from him.

Oscar followed slowly, kneeling between her legs with a reverence that felt like worship. His hands were rough where they touched her — firm, unyielding — but his eyes, his voice, were soft. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I don’t know how to handle it. You— you don’t know what you do to me, ‘Cesca.”

Francesca flushed, cheeks pink and eyes shy, but her smile was dripping with want. “Tell me,” she begged, pleaded. “I want to know.”

He leaned down, cupping her face, kissing her like she belonged to him — like she was something sacred and already claimed. His voice was low, rough at the edges. “You make me feel invincible,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Like no one can touch me. Like I was made to be yours — and you were made to be mine.”

“You are mine,” she said, lips brushing his. “And I’m yours. Always.”

That snapped the last thread of his restraint.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and pushed inside her slowly, too slowly, dragging it out because he needed to feel every inch of her around him.

Francesca hitched a breath, her whole body responding before her mind could catch up. Her back arched, pressing her chest flush to his, skin to skin and desperate for more. Her hands slid up the nape of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there like she needed him closer. She did. She needed him as close as possible. All hers.

Oscar dropped his forehead to hers, whispering, “There she is… that’s my good girl.”

She whimpered, tightening around him, her thighs wrapping around his hips. “Yours. I’m yours, Osc.”

His hips snapped forward, the pace brutal and unrelenting; but his words, his hands, his heart stayed soft.

“Doing so good for me,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face, kissing her nose. “So sweet. So fucking pretty, baby.”

She keened, overwhelmed by the praise, the pleasure, the closeness. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he swore. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere. Not ever again.”

When she came, it was with his name on her lips. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. And he followed seconds later, burying his face in her neck, murmuring how perfect she was, how much he loved her, how he didn’t know how he’d managed to exist in the world for so long without her.

They stayed tangled together, limbs and whispers and sweat-slicked skin, until the world shrank down to the soft rise and fall of their breathing and the feeling of finally, finally being home.

⸻

Oscar carried her to the bathroom.

She was boneless in his arms, cheek resting against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone. There were fresh teeth marks on the curve of his neck.

His heart was still hammering against her ear; not from exertion anymore, but from something quieter. Something tender and sweet.

He set her down on the bathroom vanity with a kiss to her temple, then knelt to start the bath. Warm water thundered into the tub, steam curling around them as he reached for the little bottle of bubble bath she liked; the one he always remembered to travel with, even when it was unnecessary and took up too much room in his case.

Francesca watched him silently. Her lashes were heavy, her lips kiss-swollen, and there was a peaceful sort of glow about her that made Oscar’s chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up as he tested the water with his hand.

She smiled sleepily. “More than okay.”

His blush flared up again, pink blooming over the apples of his cheeks. “Good,” he muttered, suddenly shy now that they weren’t tangled up in each other. “Didn’t want to be too much.”

Francesca reached for him, tugging gently until he stood between her legs. She rested her hands on his hips and tilted her head up. “You’re never too much,” she said. “You were perfect. You’re always perfect.”

Once the bath was full, he lifted her in first. Then he slid in behind her, arms wrapping around her torso as she settled between his legs, her back flush to his chest.

The bubbles frothed around them, lavender-scented and soft. Francesca leaned her head back onto his chest with a slow, gentle sigh that melted through the room.

Oscar nuzzled against her, pressing little kisses along her skin. Soft and unhurried. “Missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you.”

She reached back to tangle her fingers in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”

His hands never stopped moving, gliding along her arms, her sides, her thighs under the water. Not sexual, just grounding. Reassuring. Like he needed to remind himself she was really here, really his.

“You always take such good care of me,” she said quietly. “Best husband in the world. My world champion.” She murmured, pushing back against him and closing her eyes.

They stayed until the water cooled, until the bubbles popped and the steam faded from the mirrors. Until their fingers were wrinkled and their skin soaked and their hearts finally felt whole again.