LAX Airport — Early 2010s

The arrivals terminal was crowded, but you barely noticed the chaos. You stood near the barrier, heart hammering, your daughter perched on your hip. Her little blonde curls bounced as she fidgeted, eyes wide at the noise and the people.

It had been a month. Thirty-one days of phone calls, video chats, and bedtime stories told through a screen. A month of missing his voice in the mornings, his warmth in the evenings, the way he kissed your temple when you were half-asleep.

“Dada?” your little girl asked, tiny voice hopeful as she tugged on your shirt.

“Soon, sweetheart,” you whispered, kissing the top of her head. “He’ll be here any minute.”

Then — you saw him.

Hayden appeared through the sliding doors, tall and tired, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was a little messy, stubble lining his jaw, but his eyes… the second they found you, blue and bright despite the exhaustion, everything else blurred.

He froze for half a second, drinking you in, then his gaze dropped to the little girl in your arms.

“Dada!” she squealed, wriggling in your hold.

That broke him. He dropped the bag without caring who tripped over it, weaving through the crowd until he reached you.

“Hey, hey—come here,” he said, scooping his daughter into his arms. She clung to him immediately, little arms wrapping around his neck. Hayden buried his face against her curls, his shoulders shaking as he breathed her in. “God, I missed you. Both of you.”

You reached up, brushing your hand against his arm, grounding him. “We missed you too.”

He looked at you then — really looked. His eyes softened, full of love and apology and something so fierce it made your chest ache. He leaned in, kissing you deeply despite the people around, his daughter giggling between you.