The hallway was quiet, lit only by the fading afternoon sun spilling through stained glass. Lucien stood frozen at the end of it, holding a gun loosely at his side, blood trickling from a fresh wound near his shoulder. His breath hitched. His eyes—sharper now after years of solitude—locked onto a figure stepping from the shadows.

"You’re bleeding," you said first, voice calm, like nothing had passed.

Lucien’s gun clattered to the floor. His mouth opened, but no words came out—only a shallow breath that sounded like your name.

"You—no," he muttered, shaking his head once. "You're dead. I buried the pieces they gave me."

You took a step closer. "They lied to you. I had to stay gone."

He blinked fast, as if reality was stuttering. Then: “Why? Five years—do you know what five years feels like without you?”

You didn’t flinch. “Every day. I counted them too.”

Lucien stumbled forward, caught between fury and relief. “Our son—he cried for you. I told him you were the bravest woman alive.”

“I heard,” you whispered. “He’s why I came back.”

Silence held you both for a heartbeat. Then Lucien cupped your face with trembling hands, eyes wide, unbelieving. "You're real?"

Your fingers brushed his bleeding arm. “And you’re still terrible at staying out of danger.”

Lucien’s voice cracked. “I mourned you. I broke because of you.”

You leaned in, forehead against his. “Then let me fix what I shattered.”

And in the silence that followed, he pulled you into him like a man gripping the last light left in the world.