The moment

Six years. Six long years, and here they are—standing in the cramped, flickering light of a ship that's seen too many battles, too many scars. Bellamy had been to hell and back in those years, each day spent searching for the impossible, holding onto a fragile hope that kept slipping through his fingers. He had seen too much, lost too much, and yet—here she is, alive.

But not unscathed.

They'd both been broken, just in different ways. He had abandoned her when the countdown was ticking down, a choice that shredded him more than he cared to admit, but it had been necessary, hadn't it? She had stayed, sacrificed herself so the rest of them could survive, and yet here they both are—survivors in a world that didn't know how to stop taking from them.

The deal with Diyoza had been struck, a fragile thread of hope stretched across the wreckage of a broken world. Bellamy had done what he had to do to get her back, to see her again, and the moment he stepped onto that prison ship, it was like everything he had been living for, every painful breath, finally had meaning again.

But when he saw her—when he finally saw her—he realized the weight of what had been lost. The years. The silence. The space between them, now thicker than ever.

Her eyes find his, and for a split second, neither of them moves. She looks like she's seeing a ghost—a ghost she didn't expect to see again. His chest tightens, and for a moment, it's like the entire world stops. There's no sound, no breath, just the aching silence between them, stretching, wrapping itself around everything.

Then, slowly, she lifts her head, meeting his gaze, and for the first time in six years, he feels like he can finally breathe again.

But it's not enough.

There's too much unsaid, too many things that still need to be fixed, too much distance between them for this to feel like it ever will be enough. Bellamy steps forward, but he doesn't reach out. He can't yet. Not until she's ready.

"I knew you were alive," he says, his voice rougher than he intended, raw like it hasn't been used in years. It's the truth—he never let go of that hope, not fully. Not when the world told him he had to.

Her eyes flicker, and he watches the way her breath hitches, the way her chest rises and falls like she's fighting to stay calm. He knows that feeling—that gnawing in your gut, that desperate wish for something you can't have. He felt it every day, when he stared out at the stars and tried to push the thought of her out of his mind.

But now, she's here.

His throat tightens as he looks at her, his words catching before they even make it out. "I wanted to call." He runs a hand through his hair, a sharp exhale escaping him, the frustration and relief bleeding together. "Every fucking time I thought about it. But I couldn't. I couldn't sit here, waiting for nothing. For you not to be there."

There's a rawness in his chest now, a pressure he can't shake. He wants to pull her to him, wants to feel her warmth, to prove that she's really here. But something holds him back.

Instead, he waits.

His eyes fall to her hands, still stiff at her sides, before they raise back to her face. He doesn't know what to say next—doesn't know how to say the words that have been gnawing at him since that moment he had to leave her behind.

But she moves first.

Barely. Just a shift of weight, her eyes never leaving his. The subtle change in her posture, like she's reaching for him without even realizing it. It sends a shock through him—straight down his spine, into his bones.

And then—

Her fingers brush his.

The world cracks open.

It's a soft, hesitant touch, nothing more than a whisper against his skin, but it's enough. Enough to make his heart beat harder, enough to make him ache in a way he doesn't know how to fix. His hand twitches, wanting to reach for her, to grab her and hold on like he might lose her again. But he stays still.

"I thought about calling," he says again, voice quieter now, like the words have weight, like they've been buried too long. "Every time."

Her fingers tighten—just the smallest movement—and it's enough to break every wall he's spent years building. Enough to make him step forward, to close the distance between them, not waiting for permission but simply because he doesn't know how to breathe without her close.

There's so much unsaid, so much between them that could never be fixed with words alone, but the silence feels different now. It feels like something they can share, something they can rebuild.

And when she doesn't pull away, when her fingers stay locked with his, Bellamy knows, deep down, that maybe—just maybe—they can find a way back to each other after all.