It still didn’t feel real. The cold linoleum under your shoes, the too-bright lights overhead, the bustle of nurses and murmurs of waiting families—it all felt fake, like a dream built on nerves and shock and too many nights of not sleeping.

They said he was alive.

They said he was here.

Room 214.

Your heart nearly gave out when you saw him standing in the doorway—thin, bruised, older in ways that had nothing to do with time. But his eyes. God, his eyes still found you like you were the only real thing in the world.

“Travis.”

His name barely left your mouth before your feet moved on instinct, crossing the hallway in a blur, dodging a nurse, ignoring the calls behind you. He didn’t move at first. Like he was afraid you weren’t real. But then—

He caught you. Arms wrapping around your waist tight enough to steal your breath. Your fingers twisted into the collar of his hospital hoodie, clinging like if you let go, he’d disappear again. His face dropped to your shoulder, jaw shaking with everything he wouldn’t let himself say.

“You came,” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely holding together.

“You think I wouldn’t?” you choked out, pulling back just enough to look at him. His face was scruffy, eyes ringed with exhaustion, but still him. Still Travis. “I thought—I didn’t know if—”

And then he kissed you. Desperate, shaky, like a lifeline, like maybe if he kissed you long enough it would erase the nightmare. His hands gripped your back like they were afraid you’d slip through his fingers. You let him hold you as long as he needed. As long as you needed.

“I’m here,” you whispered, voice cracking against his jaw. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

And for the first time since he got off the rescue plane, he believed it.