She returns his kiss and cradles his face for a moment between her hands, her heart so full she can't speak, can barely breathe.

Home. And for a moment, she doesn't care that it's the place that shut her out, burned her, called her enemy. It's still where she was born. Where she grew up and lived. Where she became who she is.

Who she still is. Somewhere. I don't have a home, she'd told him, and it was true, but she doesn't want it to be true anymore. She doesn't want to be homesick anymore.

So she nods and smiles a little at him and takes another deep breath before she trusts herself enough to speak. "Almost."

If she has a home, it's not a place. It's just wherever he is. "Brooklyn's waiting."