My arms slip around his neck as he climbs, muscles straining under me, breath steady. His strength feels endless —like nothing could pull him from this ladder, from this mission, from me.
We reach the top, and cold mountain air hits my face like a blessing.
Fresh air.
Real air.
I choke on it, overwhelmed.
Ronan sets me down gently, hands still hovering at my waist as if he expects me to shatter.
I don’t shatter.
But I reach for him again.
He lets me.
Cyclone and Faron emerge from the snow-covered ridge, hauling gear and covering the rear.
Cyclone jogs over, his eyes widening. “Hart… damn. You’re tough as hell.”
I almost laugh — but the sound sticks in my throat as a tremor runs through my body. My eyes burn. My breath stutters.
Too fast.
Too much.
Too everything.
Ronan steps in front of me, blocking the others from view, shielding me. His voice drops low.
“Lena. Look at me.”
I do. Because I always do.
His gloved hand brushes my cheek. “You’re okay.”
But my chest tightens.
“Am I?” My voice cracks. “Because it doesn’t feel like it.”
He doesn’t flinch. He closes the distance and rests his forehead against mine — warm, steady, unshakable.
“You are,” he whispers. “Because you’re with me.”
My fingers curl into his jacket, anchoring myself.
His breath catches, just barely.
And in that quiet, icy moment on the mountain, surrounded by the Golden Team, and the Delta Five and the wreckage of what I survived…
I believe him.
“Let’s get you home,” he murmurs.
Home.
I don’t know what that word means anymore.
