The gates of Belle Reve groaned open, rusted hinges protesting as Floyd walked out into the blazing sunlight, shielding his eyes. The Louisiana air was sticky, heavy with the scent of swamp water, and yet it felt lighter than any breath he’d taken in years. Freedom. It wasn’t supposed to feel so foreign.

A duffle bag hung from one shoulder, his grip on it tight, though it wasn’t the weight of the bag that slowed his steps—it was the figure waiting just past the fence.

A car sat idling on the cracked asphalt, and you leaned against it, arms crossed, unmoving. The sight stopped him in his tracks, one boot scuffing the dirt beneath him. He hadn’t dared to expect anyone would be here. For a moment, he stayed rooted to the spot, scanning the familiar shape of the one person who’d refused to abandon him when it would’ve been easier to walk away.

The people who’d said they cared never stuck around—not through the chaos, the blood, or the mistakes. You weren’t supposed to be any different. Yet, you’d been there through it all, answering letters he’d never thought anyone would bother to read, keeping him grounded when everything else in his life had spiraled into chaos. And now, against all odds, here you were.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself forward even as his boots felt heavier with each step. The past hung between you both, unspoken but ever-present. The closer he got, the more his chest tightened with something he couldn’t quite name. Regret? Gratitude? A mix of both? The letters were one thing, but this—being here, waiting for him—it was real in a way he hadn’t prepared for, and harder than anything Waller had ever thrown at him.

By the time he reached the car, his throat felt dry, and he couldn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he focused on the ground, his voice low and rough as he spoke. “You didn’t have to do this...” He hesitated, then added, quieter this time, “But... thanks for bein' here.”