Once, there would have been no hesitation in that touch; it wouldn't have stopped short of her, the nearby warmth of his hand counterintuitively sending a chill through her. Once, she'd have flung herself at him the second she first caught sight of him there in front of her. Part of her still wanted to. Another part wanted to turn away and close the ramp and pretend this never happened. She'd been wrong before, letting herself care so much, falling for him the way she had. Despite her best efforts, she always had been too soft-hearted. She didn't want to put herself through that again. Becoming attached like that only led to her getting hurt, a lesson she'd learned too many times throughout her life.

In his absence, she'd hated him, then hated herself for hating him. Anger was just always easier, safer, a dam holding back a flood of messier, more dangerous feelings. That dam was fragile, though, and the look in his eyes seared past it, at least for the moment.

She stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in the curve of his neck, a mirror of how she'd embraced him on the beach, at the end. He still smelled like salt and sand and smoke, but underneath that, like himself, too. With everything she had in her, she willed herself not to cry.

"Yeah," she lied, muffled against his shoulder. "I'm okay."