Murphy stood frozen, chest heaving, eyes locked on the figure in front of him. His mind refused to catch up, to process what he was seeing.

You were alive.

For hours—maybe days—he had believed otherwise. He had seen the wreckage, the blood, the empty space where you should have been. He had told himself not to hope, not to be stupid enough to believe in miracles.

And yet, here you were.

His breath hitched, something raw and unfamiliar clawing at his throat. His legs moved before he could think, closing the space between you in seconds. His hands gripped your shoulders, solid and real beneath his touch.

“I thought you were dead,” he choked out, his voice breaking in a way he hated. “I—I saw—” He cut himself off, shaking his head as if that would erase the memory of all the ways he’d imagined losing you.

His grip tightened. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?” His voice was sharp, but his hands never let go. “I thought—I thought I lost you.”

You reached up, fingers ghosting over his arm, grounding him in the moment.

Murphy exhaled, something in him unraveling. He was angry, shaken, but above all else, he was relieved.

Before he could stop himself, before he could overthink it, he crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was desperate, rough, filled with all the things he didn’t know how to say. His hands cupped your face, pulling you closer like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, breath still uneven. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmured, voice softer now, raw with something he wasn’t ready to name.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter. Because you were here. And that was enough.