He stood slowly—deliberately, as if he was afraid I’d vanish if he moved too fast. And then something broke across his face.

A smile.

A genuine one.

Unapologetic. Crooked. Brilliant. Undeniably him.

My heart slammed against my ribs, beating too fast, too loud, and there wasn’t enough air to breathe.

“Beverly Price,” he said, his voice cracking slightly at the edges. “You’ve got exactly three seconds to get over here and into my arms before I come over there and drag you into them myself.”

I didn’t move.

Not for one. Not for two.

My knees shook. I felt seventeen again—furious, shattered, aching. But I also felt everything else. The way he used to carry my dance bag when I was too tired to argue. The way he never looked at anyone the way he looked at me.

My vision blurred.

I didn’t cry. Not really. Just got something in my eye.

At three, I dropped the folder.

And then I ran to him. I didn’t care how stupid it looked or if anyone saw. I crossed the room in a blur, ready to crash into him. His arms wrapped around me before I could finish closing the distance. They were stronger now, but still familiar. Still home. He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t say anything. He just held me. Tighter than I expected. Longer than I thought I deserved. And I let him. Because for the first time in two years, I felt like I could finally breathe. I let out a half-laugh, half-sob, buried my face in his shoulder, and gripped the back of his button-down shirt.

His arms tightened around me with a force that felt both desperate and loving. Then he pulled back, brushing a tear from my cheek. “You’re real.” His gaze swept over me, drinking me in. “And you cut your hair,” he murmured. “It looks good.”

I touched his face, my fingers grazing the scruff along his jaw and the new lines etched near his eyes. “You… How…” I started, barely recognizing my own voice. “ChimeIn is your company?” I said, the words tumbling from my lips in a rush. My mind was spinning, trying desperately to wrap itself around the idea, but it felt like I was stuck in a fog. “You should be at Stanford.”

He nodded once, still smiling. “Stanford was boring,” he said. “I built ChimeIn while I was sitting in lecture halls. Launched the beta in between midterms. Figured if I was gonna be miserable, I might as well multitask.”

I laughed; a breathless sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me. The absurdity of it all hit me like a wave.

“How much did you think about me while you were building all of this?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted asking.