The ocean is still churning from splashdown, waves striking the hull of the recovery vessel as the team snaps into motion. Deck crew rush forward in bright vests, securing the capsule with practiced precision while voices cut sharply through the wind.

“Stabilize the capsule—watch your angles!” “Recovery one to flight, we have visual. Capsule is secure.” “Copy, recovery one. Proceed with hatch operations.”

You shouldn’t be here. Not on the deck, not in partial gear, not this close to the capsule—but you are anyway, tucked just out of the main path, trying to look like you belong while your pulse refuses to slow. Months of waiting, of watching from behind screens, led to this moment—and you couldn’t stay away.

The team works fast, running through checks as they begin to open the hatch.

“Pressure equalized.” “Stand by—hatch coming open.”

The seal breaks with a sharp sound, and the crew leans in immediately. One by one, the astronauts are guided out—careful, methodical. The commander first, then the pilot, each one blinking against the light, movements slow as gravity settles back into their bones. Another follows, then another—four in total, each met with steady hands and quick medical checks.

“Vitals look good—keep them supported.” “Easy, easy—let your legs adjust.”

And then—her.

Christina appears in the hatch, slower than the others, one hand braced against the frame as the recovery team reaches for her. Her movements are controlled but heavy, her body clearly fighting to remember gravity. The moment her boots meet the deck, there’s the slightest dip in her posture, a quiet strain she doesn’t voice.

“We’ve got you, Christina—take your time.” “Welcome home.”

Her head lifts instinctively despite it all, eyes scanning past the crew, past the noise of the reporters snapping photos and videos.