Several months later...

"Help me!" Ian's voice sliced through the bedlam, raw and ragged, barely distinguishable from the chaos that surrounded him. The world around him was carnage-screams of agony, the sharp crackle of fire, the groaning of twisted metal all colliding into a nightmarish symphony that made it impossible to discern where one tragedy ended and another began.

The ground trembled beneath him as he tried to shift, but pain erupted in violent pulses, clawing through his muscles and bones. It felt as though his body had been encased in concrete, every movement met with merciless resistance. "Help... I can't move," he croaked, his voice strangled and weak, swallowed by the roar of destruction.

A bitter wind swept through the wreckage, carrying with it the stench of fuel and burning rubber. Ian's eyes flickered upward, vision rimmed with blood and dust, and that's when he saw it-a jagged piece of the fuselage looming above, its sharp, skeletal frame dangling from broken cables. It swayed ominously, every slight movement threatening to send it crashing down.

Panic surged anew, thudding in his chest like a war drum. He opened his mouth to scream again, but the noise that came out was hollow, devoured by the chaos. The terrifying truth pressed in on him with a weight heavier than any wreckage: he could call out all he wanted, but in this place-this hell-no one would hear him.

Silence, not rescue, was his only answer.

And beneath the crushing weight of metal and hopelessness, Ian's thoughts betrayed him. Is this how it ends? Just like this? Alone, forgotten, broken?

But even as his body trembled and his hope threatened to shatter, one image cut through the madness like light through fog-August's smile. That innocent little face. And Faith. Her eyes. Her voice.

He clung to them-like lifelines in a sea of pain.

I have to survive.

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Just when hopelessness began to engulf him, a voice-distant at first, like a whisper drifting through a storm-broke through the chaos.

"Ian! Wake up! You're having nightmares!"

Faith's voice rang with urgency as she burst into the bedroom, her pulse racing. She rushed to his side, her breath catching at the sight of him tangled in the sheets, thrashing against invisible threats. Sweat glistened on his forehead, his face twisted in terror, his mouth opening in soundless cries.

"Ian!" she called again, louder now, her voice trembling. She knelt beside him and gently cupped his face, her palms cool against his clammy skin. "It's okay. You're safe. It's just a dream."

His eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, as if he didn't recognize her. He sucked in sharp gulps of air, his chest rising and falling in frantic bursts. For a long moment, he said nothing-only blinked, disoriented, as the shadows of his nightmare loosened their grip.

"Hey... hey," Faith whispered, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. "You're home. You're okay. It's over."

Her words, soft and steady, anchored him. Gradually, his breathing began to slow. His trembling hands gripped the edge of the blanket, still holding on to fear even as reality began to settle in.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her hand never leaving his. "It was the crash again, wasn't it?"

Ian didn't speak. He only nodded faintly, his throat too tight with emotion to form words. The crash had changed everything. Since his release from the hospital, sleep had become a battleground-each night a silent war against the memories buried in fire, metal, and helplessness.

Faith watched him carefully, her heart aching. "You're not alone in this," she said, barely above a whisper. "I'm here."

And in that quiet promise, as the storm within him began to settle, Ian finally allowed himself to believe her.

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Each dream felt vivid and raw, dragging Ian back into the depths of that fateful day like a relentless tide. Faith wished she could reach into his mind and erase the horrors that clung to him. She leaned closer, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers gentle and grounding in the midst of his inner storm.

Ian lay still, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven bursts as he fought to steady himself. Faith sat beside him, her fingers sliding through his tousled hair in soft, rhythmic strokes. "Try to breathe slowly," she murmured, her voice warm and steady, like a balm. "You're safe now. You're okay."

He looked up at her, his eyes wide and glassy, vulnerability etched deep in their depths. With a slight nod, he tried to follow her guidance, taking shaky breaths, clinging to the calm she offered.

Faith's gaze roamed over him, worry curling in her chest. "Are you hurt anywhere?" she asked, gently brushing her thumb across his temple. The doctor's warnings echoed in her mind-his injuries were still healing, especially the damage to his right leg. They'd said it might never be the same, not unless he committed to every grueling step of physiotherapy. And even then, there were no guarantees.

Ian exhaled slowly, the breath weighted with frustration. "Yeah. My head... and my leg," he admitted, the defeat in his tone cutting into her like glass.

She nodded, her heart aching for him. The pain behind his eyes was more than physical-it was grief, guilt, and the haunting memory of loss. Just as she began to rise from the bed to get his medication, she felt his hand close around hers with unexpected strength.

"Please... don't leave me," he whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with desperation.

Faith froze, her breath catching. His grip wasn't just physical-it was a plea. For comfort. For connection. For something to hold on to in a world that no longer felt familiar.

"I won't be long," she promised, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Just water and your meds. I'll be right back."

His fingers slowly loosened, though his eyes never left hers. With a reluctant nod, he let her go, and Faith gently rose from the bed. She paused at the doorway, casting one last glance at him-sweat-dampened, weary, but still fighting.

And with her heart thudding against her ribs, she made her way to the kitchen, praying that even in those few short minutes, the shadows wouldn't pull him under again.

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Once in the kitchen, Faith filled a glass with cool water, the sound of it splashing against the glass the only thing grounding her in the moment. She retrieved the medication from the cabinet, her fingers trembling slightly as her thoughts swirled-about Ian, about the weight of everything he carried, about how fragile this moment truly was. Without wasting another second, she hurried back to his room, her pace quickened by worry.

Setting the glass and pills gently on the nightstand, she immediately turned to him. "Let me help you sit up," she murmured, easing her arm behind his back. Ian leaned into her touch, his body heavy with exhaustion and pain. She supported him with care, guiding him up with a tenderness that came from a place deeper than obligation.

Lifting the glass to his lips, Faith watched as he took small sips. His throat bobbed with effort, each swallow a quiet struggle. Once the water was gone, she passed him the pills, her gaze never leaving his face. He winced slightly as he took them, chasing them down with the remaining water, then handed her the glass with a small, grateful nod.

She placed it back on the nightstand, heart aching as she helped him lie back down. "Try to get some sleep," she said softly, brushing a hand gently along his shoulder. Her body moved on instinct to leave-but his voice stopped her cold.

"Stay with me," he whispered, so softly it might've been mistaken for a dream.

Faith turned back, startled by the vulnerability in his tone. Their kiss from months ago-the one she'd labeled a mistake-still lingered between them like a shadow neither had fully confronted. Since then, he'd become distant. He traveled without ever asking for help with August. He smiled, but it rarely reached his eyes. And every time she tried to breach the subject, he deflected-shutting the door before the conversation could begin.

So hearing those words from him-raw, unguarded-felt like a crack in the wall he'd built around himself.

"Are you sure?" she asked carefully, not wanting to misstep. Her heart had learned to tread lightly where his was concerned.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Please..."

That one word broke whatever restraint she had left. She nodded, brushing aside her own hesitations, and quietly climbed onto the bed beside him. The mattress dipped slightly beneath her weight, and she moved with care, mindful of his injuries.

"You have physio tomorrow," she reminded him gently, her voice threading through the quiet like a lullaby. "You need your rest."

Ian gave a slow nod, but she could still see the lines of pain and fatigue carved deep into his face. It wasn't just the injury. It was everything-the therapy, the memories, the weight of what they were and weren't to each other.

He closed his eyes, and for a long moment, Faith watched him-watched the way his chest rose and fell, the way his brow furrowed slightly even in rest. The emotional toll was wearing him down, bit by bit, and though he hadn't said it aloud, she felt it-how close he was to giving up.

She didn't speak. She just lay there, close enough for him to feel her presence, far enough not to overwhelm. And slowly, she felt his breathing even out, his body surrendering to the exhaustion he could no longer fight.

In the hush of the room, Faith stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts tangled in worry and silent hope. Maybe tonight was a step forward. Maybe tomorrow, they'd talk. Maybe the space between them wasn't as wide as it had once seemed.

For now, she stayed. Because sometimes, staying was the loudest way to say, I still care.

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The next morning, Ian stirred to the gentle sound of birdsong drifting in through the cracked window. For a fleeting moment, there was peace-until he turned and realized the space beside him was empty. The sheets, still faintly warm, told him she hadn't been gone long, but the absence settled like a weight on his chest. He stared at the ceiling, letting the morning light filter through the curtains and cast slow-moving shadows across the floor. Still, all he could feel was the silence pressing in.

He told himself she was probably in the kitchen, maybe making breakfast. But the familiar ache of solitude crept in anyway, and he couldn't help but feel the hollowness that lingered every time she walked away-even for a moment.

August was staying with his parents for the week, a quiet arrangement meant to give Ian space to recover. Space, he thought bitterly, didn't always mean healing. The doctors kept urging him to talk to someone, to see a psychiatrist. They believed the trauma would eat away at him if left unspoken, untreated. Ian didn't argue. He knew they were right. But the idea of opening those sealed doors-of revisiting everything-terrified him.

Sometimes it was the smallest things that triggered him. A slammed door. A sudden silence. Once, it had been the sound of a plate shattering in the kitchen. Faith had rushed in to find him curled on the floor, breathless and shaking, caught in a memory that wasn't even fully formed. It had taken her nearly half an hour to bring him back-to remind him where he was, that he was safe, that he wasn't alone.

"Hey, Ian. You're awake."

Her voice, soft and steady, cut through the fog of his thoughts. He blinked, eyes finding hers. She was standing in the doorway, the scent of something warm and familiar trailing in behind her-eggs, maybe, and coffee.

"Yeah," he said, his voice low. "I'm awake."

Faith offered him a smile, the kind that didn't ask too much of him. "How's your head? Still hurting?"

He considered the dull ache behind his eyes, the stiffness in his leg. "It's getting better," he said quietly. "Thanks... for last night."

Her eyes softened, and she nodded. No grand gestures. No need for elaboration. She understood him in a way no one else did-and sometimes that made it easier. Other times, it just made everything feel heavier.

"Come on," she said gently, wheeling the chair closer to the bed. "Let's get you into the shower. We've got a doctor's appointment, remember?"

Ian sighed but didn't resist. He shifted slowly, grimacing as pain lanced through his leg. Faith was already there, steadying him, her hands firm yet careful. She didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. She just helped.

As he settled into the chair, a tangle of guilt wound itself tighter in his chest. Her hands. Her time. Her presence. All of it wrapped around him like a lifeline-but he couldn't ignore the thought that he was dragging her down with him.

He glanced up at her, then quickly away. Does your boyfriend know you're doing all this for me? he wondered silently. Does he know how much you're giving to someone who isn't even yours to care for anymore? But he didn't ask. He couldn't.

Instead, he said nothing, letting the silence speak for him as she wheeled him toward the bathroom, unaware that beneath the surface, his thoughts were spiraling-questioning, doubting, hoping-for something he wasn't sure he deserved anymore.

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As Ian prepared himself for the day ahead, a storm brewed quietly within him. A part of him longed to scream-to beg her to walk away, to live her life unburdened by the wreckage he had become. And yet, just as fiercely, he yearned for her nearness-for that grounding presence that made the air feel breathable again. The war inside him never stopped, but for now, he clung to the simplicity of one breath, one moment, at a time.

After his bath, the faint scent of soap and steam lingered in the air, wrapping the small bathroom in warmth. Faith stepped inside with quiet grace, her movements instinctive and unhurried as she wheeled the chair back into their room. Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, painting gold across the walls-a fleeting echo of better days.

She paused at the door, offering him space. "Take your time," she'd said softly before stepping out, giving him the dignity of privacy.

A few minutes passed. Then more. Silence stretched thin.

"Are you done?" she called gently, the question carrying a thread of worry. When no reply came, her heart leapt into her throat. Without waiting, she reentered the room.

Ian was dressed, seated at the edge of the bed, but something was wrong. His eyes were vacant, locked on a world she couldn't see. He was breathing, but he wasn't there.

"Ian?" she whispered, crouching in front of him, her own breath catching. She searched his face, her voice trembling despite herself. His eyes-glassy, distant-were filled with terror.

"Ian... whatever you see right now, it's not real," she said, carefully cupping his face between her palms. "You're okay. You're home."

Sweat beaded across his forehead. His hands trembled faintly at his sides.

"Ian, can you hear me?" she asked again, firmer now, desperate to pull him back. Her thumbs gently brushed his cheeks, her touch deliberate and tender.

"The plane is crashing," he muttered, his voice barely above a breath, yet the horror in it struck her like a blow. "It's crashing..."

"No, baby. No," she whispered fiercely. "You're not on the plane. You're home. With me."

The room fell quiet except for her voice. She kept talking, repeating the truth in steady fragments.

"Listen to me. Just listen."

She laced her fingers through his, squeezed tightly.

"You feel that? I'm here. You're safe now."

A tense silence followed, until finally, his shoulders slumped. A tremor passed through him, and then a sharp, ragged breath.

"I'm here," she repeated, her voice a fragile thread of hope.

His eyes shifted-barely, but enough. Enough to let her know he was coming back. He gave the slightest nod, and the recognition in his gaze cracked something open inside her.

She touched his cheek once more, thumb brushing softly over his skin.

"I can call your doctor," she offered, her voice low. "Tell him you're not feeling up to the session today. Would that be okay?"

He nodded again, this time with intention. There was exhaustion in his eyes, a silent plea she didn't need him to speak.

"Alright," she said with a gentle smile. "But you still need to eat something."

Ian said nothing. He just watched her as she stood, her movements slow and careful. Her back was straight, but she looked heavier somehow-like she carried more than just the weight of her own grief.

And maybe she did.

Still, there was something in the way she turned to leave, some unspoken vow in her presence. No matter how dark his mind became, she would always be the light pulling him back.

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Later in the afternoon, Faith made her way to Ian's bedroom, her heart heavy with concern. She hesitated at the door, noting the shadows cast by the fading sunlight slipping through the window. His mood had been off all day-a weight in the air that made her reluctant to disturb him.

"You don't have to check on me every minute, Faith. I'm not crazy enough to take that step," Ian said, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon outside the window. Even without turning, he sensed her presence, the worry practically etched into her silhouette.

"Please don't talk like that. I never think you're crazy. I just want to know if you need anything," Faith replied, her voice gentle but edged with quiet urgency. That tone-it reminded her of how he used to speak when he lost Hope, when the light in his eyes began to dim.

"You shouldn't waste your time on me," Ian murmured. "Go live your life. I don't want to be the reason your boyfriend leaves you." His voice was hollow, detached, eyes still lost in the distance.

Faith flinched. "Why do you even care so much about me?" he added, his voice cracking slightly. "I don't want to be another mistake in your life."

His words hit harder than she expected. Did he really believe that?

"I care because you're August's father, Ian," she said, struggling to keep her emotions in check. "He needs you to heal. He needs his dad to be strong again-to laugh with him, play with him like before." But even as she spoke, doubt crept in. Was that enough? Would he believe it?

"Please, don't push me away," she pleaded. "I can't watch you give up on yourself."

Ian exhaled sharply, his posture crumbling beneath the weight of despair. "Just go be happy with your man. I've already given up. I can never be okay again. You heard what the doctor said-I probably won't walk again."

Tears spilled from Faith's eyes before she could stop them. The words were too heavy, too final. She stepped closer, her voice cracking. "How can I be happy with the man I love if he's already given up on himself?"

Ian turned, startled. Her words struck him still, a flicker of surprise passing across his face.

"What do you mean?" he asked, barely above a whisper. "You love me?"

Faith nodded, her gaze never leaving his. "Yeah, I do. That's why I'm still here. That kiss... it wasn't a mistake. I was just overwhelmed. The guilt, the grief-it all felt too much."

She moved closer, kneeling beside him. "I don't know how to say all the right things. But please-don't give up on us. I can't lose you too."

Ian looked down at their intertwined hands, her touch grounding him. His grip tightened, trembling slightly. "I love you too," he said, the words choked with pain. "But I'm tired, Faith. I keep trying and failing. I don't feel like I'm enough."

Faith reached up, brushing her thumb across his cheek with a tenderness that cracked through his defenses. "You don't have to be perfect. Just be here. Just stay. Healing takes time, and you've already come so far."

He listened, the tension in his shoulders softening, her presence like a balm to his raw wounds.

"Promise me you won't give up," she whispered. "For Auggie. For me. For us. He can't wait to play with his father again."

Ian nodded, slowly this time. In her eyes, he saw not pity-but belief. Maybe that was enough to begin again.