I nod, jaw muscle ticking. “The thought of you leaving messed with my head.”
She actually smiles.
“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” I mutter. “I’m gonna miss you like hell, Web.”
“I’m going to miss you too.”
I let that hang in the air before I speak again. “Guess we better make the most of the time you’ve got left.” That’s not what I want to say. What I want to say is that I can’t imagine not waking up to her. But then what? I have nothing real to offer. So I settle for adding, “It wasn’t just sex.”
“It was more for me too.”
The tightness in my chest nearly doubles. I push through it and brush my knuckles down her cheek.
Soft moments aren’t our usual territory. But we stay in it. I draw her against me, and she lets me hold her. We don’t say anything else. I kiss her temple, her cheek, her lips—light, lingering touches, like I’m afraid of breaking this.
She leans in, and the kiss deepens. I lift her onto the counter, hands trailing over her thighs as I step between them. We take our time. No rush. No flash-fire lust. Just soft mouths and slow hands. Like we’re trying to memorize the shape of this moment to keep it with us after we’re apart.
I carry her to the bedroom. As we undress, sunlight filters through the blinds, painting her curves golden. She wraps herself around me, her breathy moans against my neck, her body flowering open, giving herself to me.
Afterward, we lie there, tangled together. She gets up first.
“Going to join me in the shower?”
“Soon as I get my legs back,” I say.
She flashes me one of her rare grins, stopping my heart for a second. “I’ll warm it up for you.”
I don’t move for a minute or two. Her phone charges on the nightstand. The shirt she wore last night hangs off the dresser. Her bonnet peeks out from beneath the pillow. Her scent is on the sheets. On me. She’s everywhere.
And soon, she won’t be.
My phone buzzes. I drag myself up and grab it from my pants pocket.Unknown number. Unease coils in my gut.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” I repeat.
Then a voice. Same one. Nervous. “…Hello.”
“Who is this?”
“Um… Damon.”
A name this time. “Do I know you?”
“No. I—I’m sorry.”
Click. Dead air.
I stare at the screen, head spinning. I call back. It just rings, leaving me with more questions. And something heavier.
Damon.
The name echoes through my mind, rumbling like a storm in the distance. One you know is approaching, you just don’t know when it’ll hit. With the phone still clenched in my hand, I hear the water running in the bathroom. Lot is singing En Vogue’s “Don’t Let Go,” endearingly off-key. I want to join her and hold on to her for as long as I can. But I’m stuck on that call.
Who the hell is Damon?
