The officer handed over Hiya's purse and charger once Dev showed his credentials and identity proofs. She sat beside him on the airport bench like a girl who'd been running through a storm and had finally found her anchor.
He didn't let go of her hand once.
Not while signing the forms.
Not while thanking the staff.
Not even in the taxi.
She sat tucked under his arm, her head leaning against his chest, eyes fluttering shut from exhaustion. His fingers brushed her hair back quietly, again and again — like counting the seconds she was safe beside him.
When the taxi finally reached the hotel near the old university district, Dev booked a room without a word. Not home — that was too far. She needed warmth, food, and sleep.
He helped her into the room.
She didn't argue.
Didn't pretend to be fine.
Just removed her sandals and curled up on the edge of the bed, silent, watching him move around — ordering food, plugging in her phone, dimming the lights.
He finally came and sat beside her.
Neither spoke.
Until she whispered, "You were going to leave."
His heart twisted. "I thought… you didn't want me anymore."
She looked at him — really looked — and her hand came up, cupping his cheek.
"I crossed the sky to find you," she said. "How could you believe that?"
He closed his eyes at her touch. "Because I was afraid."
She leaned forward slowly and kissed his forehead.
"Don't be," she murmured. "I was coming for you."
He opened his eyes then, cupping her face. "I don't deserve you."
She smiled through her exhaustion. "Then earn me again."
The night unfolded with the kind of silence that only happens when two people have nothing to prove — only a need to hold and be held.
After dinner — quiet bites between warm glances — Hiya changed into one of his old shirts that Dev offered from his luggage. It hung loose on her, sleeves drooping, scenting of him.
She came to sit beside him on the bed.
He was lying back, arms behind his head, shirt unbuttoned halfway.
She looked down at him, eyes softer than dusk. "I have a surprise for you. But it will take a few days."
He tilted his head. "What?"
She kissed his cheek — a ghost of a kiss. "You'll see."
He pulled her down into the bed beside him, gently, as if she were made of stars and might shatter.
They lay facing each other in the dim yellow light.
His fingers traced the outline of her jaw. "You smell like a missed heartbeat," he whispered.
She laughed quietly. "And you talk like a poem."
He leaned in, slowly — no rush, no hunger — and kissed her. This time, not like fire. But like rain.
A kiss that said thank you for coming.
A kiss that said I'll never doubt you again.
Her fingers curled into his shirt.
His lips stayed on hers just a little longer than breath allowed.
And when they parted, he gathered her into his chest. Their legs tangled. Her head on his collarbone. His hand resting lightly over her waist.
No heat.
Just warmth.
No lust.
Just love.
Just the safety of a bed shared by two souls who had finally stopped running.
As her breathing slowed, he asked, "Is tomorrow important?"
She nodded against his chest. "Very."
He kissed her hair.
And when she finally slept, he stayed awake a little longer, just watching her.
Thanking the universe.
For bringing her back.