He had given up.

The plane crash had been all over the news—flames, wreckage, chaos. A flight bound for Seattle, downed by a storm over the mountains. There were few survivors. Your name wasn’t on any list.

Day one, he didn’t sleep.

Day two, he called every hospital, every rescue team, begged for updates, for anything. But there was nothing.

By the end of day three, he’d shut everything off. Turned off his phone. Didn’t show up at the hospital. Stared at the wall for hours until his eyes burned. He wasn’t Derek Shepherd anymore—he was a man hollowed out by loss.

—“They didn’t make it,” they told him. And part of him believed it, because holding on was hurting too much.

But then… Cristina burst through his door on day four, breathless, wild-eyed.

—“They are alive.”

He didn’t breathe.

He didn’t ask questions.

He just ran.

The hospital doors opened and there you were—bruised, bandaged, but alive. Sitting in bed. Breathing. Real.

He stood there, stunned, barely able to move. You looked up, your gaze locking with his, and something inside him shattered.

He stepped in slowly, like you’d vanish if he moved too fast. His voice came out hoarse, cracked, like it hadn’t been used in days.

—“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, sitting beside you.

You reached out, and he took your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

—“I kept thinking… I never got to say goodbye. I never got to tell you how much I—” He stopped, swallowed hard. “I was planning your funeral yesterday.”

Tears welled in his eyes as he looked at you—alive, warm, real.

—“I don’t ever want to feel that again,” he murmured, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “I don’t care if it’s stupid, or reckless, or too much. You’re my home. And I can’t lose you.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against your hand, breathing you in.