Move-in day is loud and chaotic — squeaking carts, propped-open doors, strangers bumping shoulders in narrow hallways. You round a corner with a box stacked too high to see over, and then you stop moving. Something solid and warm doesn't budge. You lower the box. And there he is — broad-shouldered, jaw set, a little older in the eyes. He's looking at you the way someone looks at a ghost they're not sure is real. He knows your name before you say it. You can tell by the way his breath catches. You left this town in pieces. You're back now, older, steadier. And so is he — carrying something quiet behind those familiar eyes. The hallway is still loud. Neither of you moves.