Ezra caught sight of him as the delegation of New Galactic Republic officials debarked from the Eta-class ambassadorial shuttle—a tall, lean silhouette, long brown hair and billowing robes as he strode off the landing platform and toward the reconstructed Temple of Lothal—and then Ezra broke into a run.
Kanan Jarrus’s face lit up like a star beacon when he spotted his former Padawan; he opened his arms, grinning broadly, and Ezra launched himself through the air the last two meters. Laughing out loud, he caught Ezra in a spin to keep his momentum from bowling them both across the platform and into the grass, although two or three wary representatives sidestepped the pair to avoid any potential collision.
He pulled back and took in the sight of Ezra’s handsome (if a bit scruffy and unshaven) face, cupping the cheek that bore two scars from a lightsaber fight twenty years ago—a face he had not seen in person for six standard months.
“Padawan,” he said deeply, huskily, and took pleasure in the way Ezra’s eyelids fluttered, the beloved moniker causing a palpable wave of arousal to shimmer through the Force.
Trembling to regain his composure and still a little breathless, Ezra screwed his fingers into Kanan’s collar and whispered hotly, “Welcome home, Master,” before bringing their lips together in a searing kiss.