Chapter 34 — Airport
Riverton’s airport smelled like coffee and winter coats.
The air inside was dry, over-conditioned, too clean.
The kind of clean that made you forget what smoke tasted like.
I walked with my suitcase behind me, wheels rattling over tile.
My wrist felt bare without the heavy layers London winters demanded.
The jade charm rested against my skin like a second pulse.
Automatic doors slid open.
Cold air rushed in.
People spilled into the arrivals hall in uneven bursts—laughing, shouting, dragging their lives behind them.
I stepped forward and stopped.
Julian stood a few feet away, hands already on my suitcase handle.
Not grabbing.
Not demanding.
Just holding it the way you hold something you’ve carried before.
He looked older than I remembered.
Not aged.
Tempered.
His jawline sharper.
His eyes steadier.
He wore a plain coat, nothing flashy, nothing that tried to prove a point.
Behind him, the airport’s fluorescent lights made hard lines across the floor.
But Julian didn’t look hard.
He looked… present.
“Hi, Evie,” he said.
His voice was quieter than my memory.
No performance.
No anger.
No relief forced into a smile.
He took the suitcase from my hand as if it was obvious he would.
My fingers stayed in the air for a moment after the handle left them.
A small phantom grip.
Julian didn’t comment on it.
He simply waited until my hand lowered on its own.
“I came back,” he said, as if offering a fact instead of a devotion.
I nodded once.
My mouth felt dry.
We stood there while arrivals flowed around us.
People brushed past, impatient.
A child cried.
A cart squeaked.
Somewhere, a loudspeaker announced a delayed flight.
Julian shifted slightly, angling his body so he blocked the worst of the foot traffic from hitting me.
Not touching me.
Not caging me.
Just… placing himself where impact would land first.
His car was parked in the short-term lot.
The walk there was quiet.
Our footsteps stayed out of sync.
The sound of suitcase wheels filled the gaps.
At the car, Julian opened the trunk and placed my luggage inside carefully.
He didn’t slam the lid.
He closed it like the sound mattered.
Then he turned to me.
There it was—the moment where a different version of this story would have collapsed into tears.
Where apologies would pour out.
Where blame would demand a verdict.
Julian didn’t do any of it.
He looked at my wrist instead.
The jade charm.
Green against skin.
His eyes held on it for a second too long.
Then he lifted his gaze back to my face.
“We don’t start where we ended,” he said.
His words were measured, each one placed carefully.
“We start where we are.”
I didn’t answer.
My throat tightened, and I focused on the cold air filling my lungs.
Julian continued, calm.
“I booked a therapist,” he said. “In town. If you want. No pressure.”
He paused.
“And I kept the apartment,” he added. “But I’m not asking you to move back in tonight.”
A boundary offered.
Not a trap.
He opened the passenger door for me.
I sat.
The seatbelt clicked across my chest.
A familiar sound that still made my shoulders tense.
Julian didn’t comment.
He just waited until my breathing settled, then closed the door.
In the rearview mirror, the airport lights made his face look briefly divided—half bright, half shadow.
He started the car.
The engine’s hum was low and steady.
As we pulled away, the automatic doors of the terminal slid shut behind us.
Not like a prison.
Like a chapter closing.
Julian drove without speaking for a while.
The road stretched ahead, lined with streetlights that flickered on one by one.
Our shadows moved across the dashboard in small, shifting shapes.
Not touching.
Not reaching.
Just existing in the same space again.
At a red light, Julian spoke softly.
“Ash is still alive,” he said. “The cat.”
The smallest thing.
The safest thing.
My fingers curled around the strap of my bag automatically.
Then loosened.
“Ash,” I echoed.
Julian nodded, eyes on the road.
“He likes the window,” he said. “He waits there when the sun hits the floor.”
I watched the streetlight glow spill across the windshield.
For a moment, my reflection layered over Julian’s profile.
Two faces in one pane of glass.
The car moved forward again.
The city rose in the distance, familiar and not.
And for the first time since the fire, I didn’t feel like I was running.
I felt like I was arriving.