Morrison arranged everything.
A month later, I was on a plane to Seattle. New identity papers, enough money to start fresh, and an address where Dante would meet me.
I was terrified. Excited. Anxious.
What if five years had changed us too much? What if we didn't fit together anymore?
What if—
The plane landed.
I took a cab to the address. A small apartment in a quiet neighborhood.
And there, standing on the steps, was Dante.
He looked different. Older, harder, but somehow softer too. His hair was longer. He'd lost the expensive suits, wearing jeans and a simple shirt.
But his eyes—his eyes were exactly the same.
They saw me and lit up like I was the sun.
I dropped my bag and ran.
We collided in the middle of the street, holding each other so tight it hurt, both of us crying and laughing and trying to speak all at once.
"I've got you," he kept saying. "I've got you, I've got you."
"I'm here," I sobbed. "I'm really here."
"Never again," he said fiercely. "We're never being apart again."
"Never," I agreed.
He kissed me then, and it was like coming home. Like five years dissolved into nothing, and we were back in his study, in his suite, in those stolen moments when the world made sense.
"I love you," he breathed against my lips.
"I love you too. So much."
We stood there in the street, holding each other, and for the first time in five years—
I felt safe.