The knock on the door came late, just as the sky was starting to lighten with dawn. When she opened it, there he was — Hank, still in the sweat-stained shirt and scuffed boots he’d worn on the Walk. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his face drawn and pale, but his eyes were alive, shining with something raw and bright.

“They wanted interviews, photoshoots and all that shit. But I had to come home first,” he said, breathless as though he hadn’t stopped moving since the finish line. He stepped forward before she could answer, arms going around her like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go. He smelled of rain and road dust and exhaustion, but he held her like she was the only real thing in the world. “I told you I’d make it back,” he murmured against her hair, voice breaking just a little. “I told you I was ready.”