The move finally happens. No more airports. No more countdowns on screens. No more goodbyes whispered through glass and static.
Boxes fill their first shared space. Familiar objects find new places. Morning light filters through curtains that now belong to both of them. And in the quiet moments — the ones between unpacking and settling — they realise something extraordinary.
They are not visiting anymore. They are living.
Two people who once tested gravity now build a home where falling no longer feels like danger. Where difficult days are met with soft hands and unhurried understanding. Where silence is not distance, but comfort. Where laughter echoes off walls that will remember them.
Jedson brews coffee while Raylene hums softly by the window. She leans into him without fear of sudden goodbye. He wraps his arms around her without wondering how long it will last.
And sometimes, when the world feels heavy, she jokes faintly:
"What if I fall now?"
He smiles, resting his forehead against her temple.
"Then I'm already here."
Because they've learned the truth together.
They were never meant to stop falling.
They were meant to fall in place that feels like home.
And now, the ground beneath them isn't distance or doubt.
It is love. Consistency. Choice.
It is the quiet certainty of two souls who found each other — not just online, not just in the sky, but in the soft, ordinary forever of everyday life.
And this time, when Raylene closes her eyes, she doesn't wonder if she'll be caught.
She knows.
Because the ground itself is made of them.