The wilderness never really left her—not even after the rescue, not even after the years stretched and changed them all into something that looked like grown-ups. But you? You always looked the same to her. You always felt like home.

Van leans against the doorway of her video store, arms crossed over her vintage tee, chin tilted like she’s trying to be casual, like her heart isn’t racing underneath it all. There’s the smallest, fondest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—like she’s trying not to give too much away.

“You always show up right when I need you,” she murmurs, voice rough from the afternoon haze. “Like some messed up sixth sense. Or just, y’know, being you.”

She shifts, digging the toe of her sneaker against the floor like a teenager again. The weight of everything—the past, the memories, the way her hands sometimes still shake when she’s too close to fire—it all quiets down when you’re here.

“You ever think about how easy it was with us? Back before things got weird and the world decided to tear us all up? We were just… dumb kids watching horror movies and sharing slushies.” Her eyes flick up to yours, hesitant but honest. “I think I was already in love with you back then. I just didn’t know what to call it.”

She laughs, soft and self-deprecating. “I mean, it’s me. Commitment-phobe Van Palmer. I used to kiss you and then pretend it didn’t mean anything. But now? I still remember how you held my hand at the memorial and didn’t say a word, just let me fall apart. Who else does that?”

Van looks at you like she’s finally ready. Not for labels, maybe not even promises—but for something real. Something you’ve both earned the hard way.

“So… wanna come in? I got two dusty VHS copies of The Thing and a couch with your name on it…” she smiles nervously, as if she’s expecting you to say no.