The world ended in sound.

Metal screamed, luggage became shrapnel, and the sky itself seemed to tear apart as the plane slammed through the air. You barely remembered the impact—only Boone’s hand crushing yours, his voice shouting your name, and then everything spinning into white noise and fire.

When you came to, the beach was chaos.

Smoke clawed its way up into the bright blue sky, black and angry. Pieces of the fuselage were scattered like bones along the sand. People were crying, screaming, praying. You stumbled upright, heart hammering, Boone’s name already tearing from your throat before you could stop it.

But he wasn’t there.

Panic tried to take you under, sharp and suffocating, but instinct took over. Someone was pinned beneath a seat—your hands shook as you helped lift it. A woman sobbed over a motionless body, and you stayed with her longer than you should have. You tore strips from your shirt to stop bleeding, dragged survivors away from the burning wreckage, ignored the sting of sand in your cuts and the ache in your lungs.

Still, every few seconds, your eyes searched.

Across the beach, Boone was doing the same thing.

He’d come out of the wreckage with blood on his temple and adrenaline buzzing through his veins. He helped where he could—pulling people from the fuselage, shouting instructions, running back toward danger when everyone else ran away. But his focus kept slipping, his gaze scanning faces, the crowd, the smoke.

You were supposed to be right beside him.

Minutes blurred together. The screaming softened into groans and stunned silence. The fire crackled. The ocean rolled on, indifferent.

And then—there.

Through the haze of smoke and sun, Boone saw you.

You were kneeling in the sand, hands pressed to a man’s shoulder, your hair tangled and face streaked with dirt and tears. You looked up at the same moment he did, like something in the universe finally snapped back into place.

Everything else stopped.

You dropped what you were holding, the bandage slipping from your fingers, and stood on unsteady legs. Boone didn’t think—he just ran. You ran too, feet sinking into the sand, breath hitching, eyes locked on each other like nothing else existed.

You collided hard, arms wrapping around him, his momentum nearly knocking you both over. Boone buried his face in your hair, holding you like you might vanish if he loosened his grip. Your hands fisted in his shirt, fingers digging in, sobbing his name against his chest.

“I thought—” he choked, voice breaking. “I couldn’t find you.”

“I thought I lost you,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to see his face, to make sure he was real. Blood, bruises, familiar blue eyes full of fear and relief. You cupped his face, thumbs trembling. “I’m here. I’m here.”

He nodded, breathless, pressing his forehead to yours. Around you, the island burned and strangers cried and the world was forever changed—but in that moment, there was only this. Only the two of you, alive, together, clinging to each other on a beach at the end of the world.