You’d been working since sunrise, fingers stained from roots and berries, your arms aching from the endless sorting. The air smelled of earth and pine, the kind of moment where—for just a second—you could almost pretend things were normal.

Then the shouting started.

Your head snapped up. Boots thundered across the camp, the scrape of metal cutting through the air. People rushed past you, their faces pale as they whispered, “They caught one. A Grounder.”

Your stomach dropped.

You shoved the basket aside and pushed through the crowd until you saw him.

Dragged through the gates. Bound. Bloodied.

Lincoln.

His shaved head was slick with sweat, streaked with blood, tattoos curling down his chest beneath a torn shirt. His wrists were tied cruelly behind his back, shoulders rigid against the rope. Even like this—battered, exhausted—there was nothing weak about him. He moved with the strength of someone who refused to break, his gaze sweeping the camp with sharp, unyielding defiance.

And then his eyes found you.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped. The fury softened, his jaw loosened, his shoulders dropped just slightly. His lips parted like he wanted to say your name, but didn’t. Just that look—raw and steady—was enough to make your breath catch.

But the moment was ripped away as Bellamy’s voice cut through the noise.

“Take him to the dropship! Tie him up.”

Hands shoved Lincoln forward again, dragging him out of your reach. His eyes lingered on yours until the very last second.