LAX roars around you. Cars pulling up, pulling away. Families reuniting with loud laughter, couples kissing, businessmen scrolling through phones. You stand still in the middle of it all with two duffel bags cutting into your shoulders and a broken suitcase wheel scraping against the concrete.

Your phone buzzes.

You look down.

The crowd parts. You walk forward. You don’t know what you expected to feel — anger, maybe. Resentment. But your hands are shaking, and you’re not sure why.

You hear your name.

It stops you mid-step.

You turn.

And there he is.

Nathan Palmer. Older than you remember. Taller, somehow. Gray threading through dark blond hair, deeper lines around his eyes. He’s standing by a black Range Rover, one hand halfway raised like he thought about waving and didn’t commit. He’s wearing a simple navy button-up, sleeves rolled, and he looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face all at once.

For a second, neither of you moves.