You step off the transport, helmet still under your arm, boots hitting the hangar floor like thunder in his chest. He’s already there—waiting. His flight suit is half-unzipped, dirt and sweat streaked across his neck. When he sees you, he stops mid-step.

“…You’re okay.”

You nod slowly, but he doesn’t move—he’s just staring at you like he can’t quite trust what he’s seeing.

“I thought you were gone.”

You start to speak—‘I had it under control,’ maybe—but he cuts you off with a shaky laugh, almost angry at himself.

“No, don’t—don’t do that. Don’t act like it wasn’t close. Your signal dropped, your comms went silent, and I—I couldn’t breathe. I just kept thinking, not them. Please, not them.”

You step closer. He doesn’t move away. He looks down, then up again, and there’s something sharp and soft all at once behind his eyes.

“I’ve flown through storms, engine fires, missile locks—but nothing scared me like that five minutes where I thought I’d never see you again. And all I could think about was the stupid little things. Like how you chew your pen caps. And the way you say my name when you’re trying not to smile. How your laugh fills the whole damn room even when you’re trying to act like you’re too cool to laugh. That’s what I saw. That’s what I almost lost.”

Your hand brushes his. You don’t say anything—don’t need to. His voice lowers, thick now, like it’s balancing on a tightrope.

“I should’ve told you before. How much you mean to me. How much I… Look, if something had happened to you, and I never said it—I don’t think I could’ve lived with that.”

You finally meet his eyes, and he doesn’t look away this time.

“So I’m saying it now. I’m right here. And if you’ll let me, I’ll be right here tomorrow too. And every day after that.”