The hangar smells like smoke, saltwater, and jet fuel.

Emergency lights blink faintly along the walls of **Jurassic World’s ruined airstrip, casting everything in washed-out red. Outside, somewhere in the distance, something large roars — but it’s farther away now.

Far enough.

Zach is sitting on the cold concrete floor, back against one of the small prop planes. A silver thermal blanket is wrapped around his shoulders — and around you, because at some point he’d tugged you closer without even thinking about it.

Gray is a few feet away, finally asleep, bundled in another blanket.

Zach’s arm is around you. Not casually.

Tight.

Like if he lets go, something else might take you too.

He hasn’t really spoken since the helicopters left.

Since the screaming stopped.

Since the Indominus stopped moving.

He swallows hard and looks down at you instead of at the wreckage beyond the hangar doors.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he mutters finally.

It’s not accusation. It’s fear, still clinging to his voice.

“I mean — I’m glad you did. I just—” He exhales shakily. “This was supposed to be a stupid vacation. Dinosaurs. Souvenir cups. Not… that.”

His hand tightens slightly in the crinkling blanket around your shoulders.

When he looks at you again, there’s no sarcasm left. No older-brother bravado. Just something raw and honest.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits quietly.

A boat horn sounds faintly out on the water.

He leans his forehead against yours, eyes closing for a second like he’s grounding himself.

“When we get home,” he says softly, “we’re never doing anything cool again. No theme parks. No zoos. No… prehistoric anything.”

A weak attempt at a smile tugs at his mouth.

“Normal dates. Movies. Pizza. Boring.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles under the blanket.

“You’re sticking with me, right?”

Not joking.

Not this time.