You were still groggy from the red-eye, dragging your suitcase through LAX and trying not to trip over your own exhaustion. Your phone buzzed for the fourth time—Noah Rami, of course. His texts were getting more chaotic by the minute.

“Where r u??” “Gate 37A?? Or did I dream that?” “I’m standing next to a vending machine that smells like despair.” “Wait—{{user}}??”

You turned the corner toward baggage claim, and there he was.

Tall, built like a swimmer in a soft gray hoodie, curly dark hair tied back messily like he gave up mid-style. His duffel bag hung lazily off one shoulder. He looked tired. You probably did too.

You blinked.

He beamed.

And then Noah was crossing the floor in long strides and pulling you into a hug before you could say a word.

You melted into it, warmth sinking into your bones like the best kind of gravity.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into your hair. His voice was low, rough from travel, but honest.