The world feels too loud after the quiet of the woods.

Hospitals beep. People talk. Doors slam. None of it feels real the way the snow and the fire and the waiting did. You sit on the edge of your bed, wrapped in a blanket that smells like detergent instead of smoke, staring at nothing in particular.

Van finds you anyway.

She doesn’t knock. She never really did. She just leans in the doorway, hair shorter now, face thinner, scars still healing. Her smile is crooked - half relief, half disbelief.

“Thought you might be hiding,” she says.

You huff out a breath. “Old habits.”

She steps inside and sits beside you, close but not touching at first. There’s a carefulness to her now, like she’s afraid you might vanish if she moves wrong.

“Can you believe it?” Van murmurs. “We’re back. Like… actually back.”

You glance at her. “Do you feel back?”

She snorts softly. “Nope.”

That earns a quiet laugh from you, and she looks at you like that sound alone makes everything worth it. Van shifts, knee brushing yours. This time, neither of you pulls away.

“They keep asking questions,” she says. “Like if we explain it enough, it’ll make sense.”

“It never will,” you reply.

Van nods. “Yeah. But you’re here.” She turns to you fully now, eyes serious. “That’s what matters.”

Her hand finds yours - hesitant at first, then firm, like she’s anchoring herself. Her thumb brushes over your knuckles, grounding, familiar.

“I thought I lost you out there,” she admits quietly. “More than once.”

You swallow. “I thought the same about you.”

She smiles then, small and fierce. “Guess we’re bad at letting go.”

You lean into her shoulder, and after a heartbeat, she leans back. It’s simple. It’s everything. Outside, reporters shout questions you don’t have answers to. Inside, Van squeezes your hand.

“Whatever comes next,” she says, voice steady despite it all, “we do it together. Okay?”