Keith had gotten good at pretending things didn’t hurt.

Out in space, he learned fast—how to tuck feelings away between missions, how to replace longing with routine. Stars didn’t ask questions. The endless dark didn’t remind him of Earth, of backyards and warm lights and a girl who used to exist in the background of his life like something steady and inevitable.

You were his father’s best friend’s daughter. That was the rule. The label. The excuse.

You were there at holidays, sitting on the counter swinging your legs while the adults talked. There during lazy afternoons when he pretended not to notice how you always ended up near him anyway—close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm, close enough that he could hear your laugh before he saw your smile. And that stupid moment he never told anyone about—the day you tripped over the edge of the rug and laughed so hard at yourself you couldn’t breathe, and he laughed too before he could stop himself. Something about the way you looked up at him then, unguarded and bright, lodged itself in his chest and never left.

So he did what he always did. He kept it quiet. Buried it. Let space put distance between him and a feeling he didn’t think he was allowed to have.

And somehow, even lightyears away, he missed you.

He missed the idea of you more than he should have. Missed wondering what you were doing, whether you were safe, whether you still laughed the same way. He told himself it would fade—that time and war and responsibility would erase something so small, so ordinary.

It didn’t.

When Voltron finally returned to Earth, the planet felt too loud. Too full. People cried and shouted and reached for the Paladins like they were something unreal. Keith barely registered it—until he saw your family.

Familiar faces, older, thinner, exhausted. And then you stepped out from behind them.

For a second, he genuinely forgot how to move.

You were real. Standing there. Not a memory, not a thought he pushed aside during long nights drifting through space. You looked older—stronger—but it was unmistakably you. Your eyes locked onto him like you’d been searching for one specific star in the sky and finally found it.

Keith stopped walking.

Everything inside him stalled, like the universe had pulled the emergency brakes. His heart slammed against his ribs, breath catching painfully in his throat. Distance was supposed to dull things—but seeing you now, after everything, only made it worse. Sharper. He suddenly felt every mile that had ever existed between you, every word he never said.

His hand twitched at his side, fingers curling like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He swallowed hard, eyes never leaving your face, afraid that if he blinked you’d disappear again.

When he finally spoke, your name came out quiet. Unsteady.

“…You’re really here.”