I’m standing next to a guy who’s practically a walking Valentine’s day boutique, even though it’s late August. He’s got a giant sign, written entirely in pink glitter, that reads WELCOME BACK HONEYBOO, festooned with hearts and cut-out Cupids and fake flowers.

He’s also got a giant basket filled with red and pink tissue paper, a huge teddy bear, and an enormous heart-shaped box of chocolates.

I think Imogen would murder me if I greeted her at the airport like that. I’m pretty sure that the last thing she wants right now is to have her existence pointed out to the entire baggage claim, so it’s just me, standing here, next to a guy who’s practically glowing neon with romance shit.

Hopefully he’s not making me look bad, but I’m not too worried.

According to my flight tracker, she landed thirty minutes ago, and with every passing second I get more keyed up waiting for her to come down the escalators.

There are business travelers. A family with three kids, all of whom sprint across the baggage claim toward two people who must be grandparents while their parents, lagging behind, tiredly shout at them not to run.

A bunch of girls all wearing matching Everett Cheer! shirts, more families, more men in suits already talking on their cell phones.

I start to hope that she didn’t get hung up in customs or something. I hope that she didn’t absentmindedly put a sample of musk ox fur in her carry-on only to get endlessly questioned about why she’s illegally smuggling animal parts. It does seem like something she might do.

But then, finally, there she is.

She’s got on leggings and an oversized sweater, because she’s always cold, even in August. Her hair’s up in a messy bun and she’s blinking behind her glasses, looking like she just woke up.

When she finally sees me, she smiles. I take a couple more steps toward the escalator, and a woman in a suit with a briefcase gives me an annoyed look as she gets off and swerves around me.

I’m grinning like an idiot. Imogen’s half-smiling, still looking mostly asleep, one hand on the railing of the escalator.

“HONEYBOO!” a woman’s voice shouts.

We’re all surprised, even the sign-holder, as a girl wearing a pink sweat suit runs at top speed across the baggage claim and makes a beeline toward the guy holding the sign, then launches herself at him, landing with her legs around his waist.

They kiss. Sloppily. The poster flies out of his hands and settles on the floor next to them. I stare for a second too long.

“Hey,” Imogen’s voice says, and I whirl around.

She’s here. Now. In person. I’ve waited months for this moment and suddenly, I don’t know what to say.

“Hey,” I say back.

Behind her glasses, her pupils are big, almost the size of her irises, and she’s got this dreamy, lost look in her eyes.

She’s on the good anti-anxiety drugs, much better than mine, which were ‘all the whiskey.’

“Welcome back to the—”

Imogen grabs my jacket by the lapels, pulls me toward her, and kisses me.

I wrap her in my arms and kiss her back.

It’s a long, slow kiss. It’s hard and gentle all at once. It takes its time, and when it’s over, I’m out of breath, feeling spun sideways here in this airport.

Imogen lowers her eyes, a secret smile in them, her fingers still on the zipper of my jacket. It looks like she’s trying to say something but can’t think of what it is, and finally she turns, glances at the Honeyboo couple next to us.

She’s still straddling him, held in the air. They’re spinning and insisting that they each missed the other more.

Imogen moves in another inch, tucks her head below my chin and I rub her back. I think she’s still high as fuck, but I don’t mind.

“Should I have gotten you a sign?” I ask quietly into her hair.

Her body shakes slightly as she laughs.

“I took the right amount of Klonopin, but it wasn’t working, so I took more,” she says, her voice faraway and dreamy. “I almost didn’t make either of my connecting flights. I think customs thought I might be a drug mule who had something burst in her stomach. I’m not sure I can even read right now.”

“How about I take you home, then?”

She nuzzles her nose against my neck, her arms around my waist underneath my jacket.

“I have luggage.”

“I was going to get that first.”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Yeah.”

It’s almost nine by the time we get to Imogen’s apartment on University Hill, a small-but-nice one bedroom on the second story of an unassuming building. She doesn’t talk too much during the half-hour car ride, but I don’t mind.

If anyone understands needing to be drugged out of your mind to get on a plane, it’s me.

When we’re in her living room, she looks around. Turns on a light. Shakes her head slightly, takes a deep breath, pushes her glasses onto her head and rubs her eyes.

I laugh.

“Get some rest, Squeaks,” I tell her. “I’ll call you tomorrow when you’re back with the living.”

“Stay,” she says.

She puts her glasses back down and just looks at me. I feel like I’m looking into her soul, raw and vulnerable.

“Please?” she asks. “Just for a while. You can go home later, just… just stay, Wilder? For a little while?”

There’s no possible way I can say no, and we both know it.

“Only if you promise to go to bed,” I tell her. “You’re gonna fall asleep standing up.”

She smiles, softly, her face radiant as she walks past me, toward the bedroom.

“Thanks,” she says, and closes the door behind her.

Half an hour later, we’re both in her bed and Imogen’s curled against me, her breath warm against the hollow of my throat.

“Thank you,” she says. “Every time I close my eyes I swear I feel the plane crash again. Over and over and over, even through the drugs…”

Her voice trails off, and I rub a circle on her back through the worn t-shirt she’s got on.

“You’re not on a plane, you’re in your apartment,” I rumble, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “In bed. Solid land. There’s nothing to crash.”

She nods against me, and I keep rubbing her back. Slowly, I can feel all of Imogen’s muscles relax, the anxiety and tension melting away.

“Wilder,” she says suddenly, her voice nearly a whisper.

“I’m here.”

“You haven’t been fucking anyone else, right? This summer?”

I wonder how long she’s been waiting to ask this. Knowing Imogen, the question’s been on the tip of her tongue since I first met her in the airport, and she’s been trying to figure out how to ask until she finally blurts it out, seconds away from sleep.

“Nope,” I tell her, and I can feel her muscles loosen again. “Why, did you have a fling with the Fridge Nazi?”

Imogen sighs, snuggling into me even harder.

“Jesus, no,” she murmurs.

I don’t say anything else, just keep still, rub a circle on her back. In another few minutes she’s asleep and snoring so softly it’s cute.

I stay there all night, in Imogen’s bed, letting her toss and turn. I don’t know what time I finally fall asleep, but when I do, I dream of her face in the northern lights.