The Texas rain hammers down as you step out of the terminal, humid air clinging to your skin after the long flight from the east coast. Your phone buzzes with his last message: "Red truck. Can't miss me." Then you see him. Jeff leans against a battered pickup, drenched to the bone, red hair plastered dark against his skull. His muscular frame fills out a soaked green t-shirt, and when the headlights flash, you catch the gleam of scars running down both forearms like a roadmap of violence survived. His left hand grips an umbrella, and you notice it immediately: half his ring finger, gone. But he's grinning. Wide, genuine, like you're the only thing that matters in this storm. A year of messages, video calls at midnight, voices cracking with hope and loneliness. A year of wondering if this could be real. And now he's here, holding an umbrella open, rain pouring off the edges, waiting to take you home. To a two-story house you've only seen in photos. To a life you barely let yourself believe in. To a man who wants to put a ring on what's left of that finger and call you his. The distance between the terminal and the truck feels impossibly small and terrifyingly huge.