"Stay," I whisper, even though I know I'm the one who has to leave.
"Always." He kisses my temple, gentle now. "I'll always come back to you."
We drift like that, wrapped around each other while the snow falls outside and the night stretches toward dawn. Eventually he shifts to the side and pulls the blankets over us, tucking me against his chest. I press my ear to his heartbeat and let myself imagine the weeks ahead. Empty beds and phone calls that never feel long enough. But also his return every break, our stolen hours, the way we'll build this relationship across the miles until he comes home for good.
"What are you thinking?" he murmurs against my hair.
"That this is real."
His arms tighten. "It's real."
I fall asleep believing him.
***
January second dawns gray and bitterly cold. I wake to Ryder's alarm and the weight of what today means settling heavy in my chest.
He has to leave.
I've known this was coming since the moment he told me about training camp. Knew it when he kissed me at the New Year'sparty, when he made his speech, when he promised to come back. But knowing doesn't make it easier when I wake to find him packing his duffel bag in the early morning light.
"Coffee?" I offer, because I don't know what else to say.
"Please."
We move through the morning in careful silence. He folds jerseys and checks his phone while I make scrambled eggs neither of us can really eat. The apartment feels too small and too big at the same time. Every moment stretches and compresses, time doing strange things because it knows it's running out.
His flight leaves at one. We have four hours.
"I'm coming back in two weeks," he says over breakfast. "Already booked the ticket to Pine Hollow."
"I know."
"And I'll call every night."
"I know." I push eggs around my plate. "This isn't goodbye."
"No." He reaches across the table, catches my hand. "It's not."
But it feels like it. Feels like everything good is about to walk out my door and leave me here with just the memory of what these past three weeks have been.
We do the dishes together, and I'm grateful for tasks that keep my hands busy. He tells me about training camp, about the team's playoff chances. I tell him about the spring events I'm planning for the shop, the new book club I want to start. We're both trying so hard to be normal, to act like this is fine, but my throat keeps closing up and his jaw stays tight.
At noon, we can't put it off anymore. We drive to Logan in silence, my hand in his across the center console. The highway stretches out gray and salt-stained, and I focus on the lines because if I look at him I'll lose it.
At the terminal, he grabs his duffel from the trunk and pulls me into a hug that lasts too long and not nearly long enough.
"I'll call you when I land," he says against my hair.
"Okay."
"And I'll see you in two weeks."
"Okay."
"And I love you."
I pull back enough to see his face. His eyes are wet. "I love you too."
