You’d pictured it a hundred times in your head: crossing that stage, your name echoing through the speakers, velvet robes heavy on your shoulders, fingers curled so tight around the diploma they’d hurt later. You’d imagined your mom’s face in the crowd, your friends yelling your name, the sun catching on the old brick buildings.

But what you hadn’t let yourself imagine—too dangerous, too tender—was him. Standing at the back, fresh from the airport, dark shirt rumpled from hours on a plane, sunglasses on until the moment your name was called. And then it didn’t matter who saw him or screamed for an autograph: his chin lifted, sunglasses tugged off, gaze locked on you like you were the only thing on earth.

Your chest had gone tight the second you noticed him—impossibly tall even in the sea of strangers, that familiar lazy grin tugging at his mouth, tired eyes still shining. For a second, it felt like you couldn’t take the next step. But you did. One foot after the other, knees shaky, breath lodged somewhere too high in your chest. You walked across that stage with your heart beating out a rhythm that was only his name.

And now, here you are. Still shaking, diploma clutched in your hand. Boston noise swirling around you—friends yelling, cameras clicking, the breeze tugging at your robes—and him, only a few feet away.

When you reach him, it all hits at once. The months apart from your long-distance relationship. The stupid late-night calls, your voice rough with tears and exhaustion. The way he’d murmur “You’ve got this, sweetheart” down a phone line that never felt long enough.

“You came,” you breathe, voice cracking more than you mean it to.

“Of course I came,” he says, voice gone soft and gravelly, eyes flicking over your face like he’s memorizing it. “You think a six-hour flight could keep me from seeing you do that?”

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

His thumb brushes your cheek, slow, reverent. “Be fucking incredible,” he murmurs. “Watching you walk that stage? Baby, I’ve never been so proud in my life.”

Heat surges up your neck, eyes burning in the worst, best way. “It’s just a degree,” you whisper, half-laughing.

“Don’t do that,” he says, a quiet firmness under the softness. “Don’t you ever make it small. I know what it cost you. All the nights you called, ready to give up. All the mornings you kept going anyway.”

You swallow, breath unsteady. “It was worth it,” you say, softer. “Because you were there. Even when you sort of weren’t.”

His mouth lifts into a small, real smile, something raw around the edges. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice thick, “I would’ve walked every mile between LA and Boston if that’s what it took to see you up there.”

You blink hard, laughing a little, voice trembling. “God, don’t say that,” you breathe, chest too full.

“Why?” he teases, brow lifting. “Afraid you’ll cry and ruin the photos?”

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it’s shaky.

“Not a chance,” he grins, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw, gentler than you knew someone could be. His voice drops, softer than breath: “I love you so damn much, baby. And I’m so proud of you it scares me.”

That breaks something open in your chest—stupid, unstoppable tears spilling hot down your cheeks. His thumb catches them, brushing them away without teasing, gaze locked on yours.

“You saw me up? Giving my lame-ass valedictorian speech?” you ask, voice cracking.

“Every second,” he rasps, something low and wanting threading under the warmth. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you. You glowed up there, sweetheart. I think I teared up.”

You laugh, breath catching, forehead dropping to his chest. His other arm comes around your waist, holding you tight.

A shout makes you pull away—your mom, waving for a photo—but his hand stays at your waist, thumb stroking slow circles you feel all the way to your spine.

“Go take your photos,” he murmurs, grin lazy, eyes still shining. Then, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip: “And later? We’ll celebrate properly. Gonna tell you every damn reason I’m proud of you.”