The smoke is thick, curling into your lungs, the wreckage of the plane still burning behind you. The world is chaos—fire and screaming and the metallic sting of blood in the air. Your ears are still ringing from the impact, and your whole body aches, but none of it matters.

Not until you find her.

You don’t want to care. You shouldn’t care. But your heart is hammering against your ribs as your eyes scan the wreckage, searching, desperate.

And then—there.

Van is standing near the treeline, her face streaked with soot, her shirt torn, her lip split. But she’s alive.

A sharp breath shudders out of you. Before you can stop yourself, you’re moving—stumbling, sprinting—until you collide with her so hard she gasps. Your arms are around her, holding tight, grounding yourself in the solid, real warmth of her body.

She doesn’t hesitate. She holds you just as tight.

For a moment, there’s nothing else. Just the two of you, breathing in sync, bodies shaking from the adrenaline, from the sheer relief of still being here, of still having each other—whatever that means now.

You don’t think. You just feel.

Your fingers cup her jaw, rough from the crash, from the life you lived before this moment. And then your lips are on hers—soft, fleeting, but there.

Van exhales against your mouth, her grip on you tightening for a second before she’s pulling back.

The reality of it slams into you both at once.

Your eyes dart away. Shit.

Van clears her throat, rubs at the back of her neck. “Well. That was—uh. I mean. We almost died, so.” She laughs, but it’s tight, forced.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Adrenaline or whatever.”

The silence stretches. Too heavy. Too familiar.

Finally, Van sniffs, shrugs. “You good?”

You meet her gaze, something raw tightening in your chest. You want to say no. You want to say I was looking for you.

Instead, you just nod.

And, just like before, you both step away.