The Return

The first snow of the season came early.

Ezra stood just outside the arrivals gate at the airport, the white flurries clinging to his black coat like tiny confetti. He hadn't slept the night before. His phone kept buzzing with notifications—Talia's last texts from Cape Town, gate changes, delays, weather warnings—but none of it mattered now.

Because she was on that plane.

After six months, Talia Harper was coming home.

And Ezra had no idea what came next.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fingers twitching at his sides. The same question had played in his head for days: Would they still fit? Would she still see him the same way?

He wasn't the same.

Neither was she.

And maybe that was the point.

The buzz of conversation rose around him. People rushed forward, arms wide, shouts and laughter echoing through the terminal as passengers began to file in.

Ezra's heart kicked.

And then—

There she was.

Talia walked through the gate like time hadn't touched her. Windblown hair, no makeup, duffel bag over her shoulder. And yet, something in her eyes—wiser. Calmer. Grounded in a way she hadn't been before.

Their eyes locked.

She stopped.

He didn't.

Ezra droppd everything and ran to her, weaving through people until he nearly crashed into her. The hug was more like a collision—her arms wound tightly around his shoulders, his face buried in her neck, their breaths tangling in the cold.

"Hey, Trouble," he whispered.

She laughed—ragged and disbelieving—pulling back just enough to look at him. "You're here."

"Of course I'm here," he said, brushing a snowflake from her cheek. "Where else would I be?"

"You didn't write for the last week."

"I was making space—for this moment." He smiled. "Also I spent three hours debating what kind of flowers to get you and gave up. I panicked."

She grinned and tucked her hand into his. "Good call. I would've left them at baggage claim."

Back at Ezra's apartment, everything smelled like memory.

Talia dropped her bag at the door and turned slowly, eyes scanning the space. The throw blanket was still draped over the couch the way she used to leave it. The fridge still had the same ridiculous alphabet magnets that spelled out inside jokes. Her scrunchie still sat on his nightstand.

But something had shifted.

They had grown. Separately. Unevenly. And now, they had to figure out how to grow together again.

He poured them tea.

They sat in silence.

It wasn't uncomfortable—it was thoughtful. Like the quiet before you opened a letter from someone who knew your soul.

"How's your rotation here been?" she finally asked, wrapping her fingers around the warm mug.

"Challenging," he admitted. "I'm getting better at delegating, though. And standing up to Dr. Mendez."

She smiled knowingly. "You always hated confrontation."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you always ran into it like it owed you rent."

They both laughed, the sound breaking the tension like sun breaking through clouds.

Then Talia leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Ezra… I need to ask. Are we okay? I know letters and calls helped us survive, but…"

Ezra placed his hand over hers. "We didn't just survive, Talia. We chose each other every day. Through every time zone and missed call and lonely morning. That means something."

"I'm scared," she whispered. "What if we've changed too much?"

He leaned closer, eyes never leaving hers. "Then we'll fall in love all over again. As new versions of ourselves."

She searched his face for doubt. Found none.

So she kissed him—slow and real. Not frantic or desperate, but steady, like an anchor finding its hold. Like she had been drifting across oceans just to land here again.

In his arms.

They spent the next hours unwrapping stories.

She told him about the night she lost a patient she'd grown attached to, how she cried in the locker room until her mentor sat beside her in silence for a full hour. He told her about the night he stayed up reviewing a case file and realized the answer was something she had once said offhandedly at 2 a.m. between instant noodles and anatomy flashcards.

She played him a song she'd discovered at a street café in Muizenberg.

He gave her back the necklace she left behind, now fixed, the chain soldered where it had once snapped.

"You're still the storm," he said softly as he clasped it around her neck.

"And you're still the lighthouse," she murmured back.

That night, they lay in bed, tangled in each other and silence, no need for words.

Talia turned her head on the pillow. "You know… I don't have to stay at the main hospital. I could rotate out every few months. Travel. Teach. Do field work."

Ezra blinked. "You'd leave again?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. But I'd always come back. Because I don't want this"—she gestured between them—"to be a one-time chapter."

He stared at the ceiling for a beat. "Then let's write the whole book."

She smiled, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "You and me?"

"You and me," he echoed.

And just like that, home wasn't a place.

It was a heartbeat.

A promise.

A return.