He was dead. Surely, he thought, there was no way he had survived. No way you had survived. It had come out of nowhere. That stupid IED that had blown everything to bits. His lungs rattle when he tries to suck in a breath. The back of his eyelids burn, like someone’s just tossed sand in his face. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, throat dry. He was dead. He had to be.

And yet…

His eyes flicker open, staring up at what was once a ceiling. There’s the faint drip, drip, drip from somewhere off to the side. A busted pipe most likely. He blinks, turning his head, the small movement taking every once of energy he has.

And there you were. Bloodied, bruised, lips parted. He stares, willing you to move. Counts every slow rise of your chest. He grunts, twisting to try and right himself and get to his feet. Pain lances through his ribs, and he has to pause to suck in air. He moves onto his stomach instead, desperation welling up in his throat. The floor is damp, the cold seeping through his clothes. But he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that even his fingers bark in protest as he drags himself forward. Everything hurt. Everything ached and burned and stung. But none of that mattered.

He surges forward, the distance between you closing however slowly. He would have done it a thousand times over.

Here he was.

Crawling back to you.