You hadn’t cried like that in years.

Not since they told you Jack Wilder died. Not since the news aired the footage — the fiery crash, the twisted wreckage, the flames licking the edges of what was left of the man you loved.

He didn’t tell you. No warning. No code word. No card slipped beneath your pillow like he used to do. Just… gone.

And now, months later, when the ache had dulled into something hollow and permanent, he shows up.

Standing in your doorway.

Alive.

He looks different. Tired. Older somehow. But it’s him. Same smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. Same storm in his eyes when he meets yours.

“I wanted to tell you,” Jack says, voice quiet. “I swear I did. But if I had… they would’ve come after you. And I couldn’t risk that. Not for anything. Not even—”

He stops himself.

Not even for you.

Your fists are clenched at your sides. You’re shaking — with rage, relief, grief, love — you don’t know. You want to punch him. You want to hold him. You want to scream.

And Jack just stands there, hands up like he’s surrendering to something bigger than handcuffs, bigger than the Horsemen, bigger than any trick he could ever pull.

“You can hate me,” he says. “You’d have every right. But I’m here now. And if you’ll let me… I want to stay.”