Suguru stands near the barrier where arrivals funnel through, a bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper growing slightly limp in his grip. His palm is damp.

Two years. Spotty texts. Calls that went to voicemail more often than not. He told himself it was fine. She was busy. She was building a life. He wanted that for her.

He told himself a lot of things.

And then—

He sees you.

You're taller, somehow. Or maybe it's the way you carry yourself now. Your hair is different—shorter, or styled differently, he can't tell. Your face lights up as you scan the crowd, and his heart seizes, because it's still the same smile. The same eyes. The same you.

He lifts his hand. He's smiling before he even realizes it, genuine and wide and boyish, like nothing has changed.

And then a hand settles on your shoulder. A man steps up beside you—one Suguru doesn't recognize—and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close. He presses a kiss to your temple, casual and familiar, like he's done it a thousand times.

You lean into him. Naturally. Without thinking.

The sunflowers feel heavy in Suguru's hand.