“I’m going to be okay,” he agreed.
We finished packing in silence. The duffel bag sat by the door like an accusation, holding the version of him I’d learned to hate before I’d understood.
When there was nothing left to fold or organize, we stood facing each other. The gray morning light had warmed slightly, but not enough to chase away the weight of what was coming.
His hands came up to cup my face, the way they had in the dark. But now, I could see him clearly—every line, every scar, the blue of his eyes that had gone soft despite the sharpness in the rest of him.
“I’ll be back. A few days at most. Then this is over.”
“You better.” I managed something close to a smile. “I have plans for you.”
His lips twitched. Almost a smile in return. Almost.
He leaned his forehead against mine, and we stood there for a moment, breathing the same air. I felt his thumbs trace slow circles on my cheekbones. Felt him steadying himself the same way he’d steadied me hours ago.
“I love you,” he said. “I should have said it every day since I found you again. But I’m saying it now, and I’m going to keep saying it when I get back.”
“I love you too.” My voice caught on the words. “Now go finish this so you can come home.”
Then he kissed me.
Long and deep and aching. The kind of kiss that tried to say everything words couldn’t—I’m scared, I’m coming back, please be here when I do.
I kissed him back with everything I had. Poured six years of missing him and a lifetime of wanting him into the press of my lips against his.
He pulled away before either of us could change our minds.
One more look. One more moment of his eyes on mine. Then he grabbed the duffel, opened the door, and walked out.
I stood in the doorway and watched him load the bag into his truck. Watched him climb into the driver’s seat, the engine turning over with a rumble that echoed across the quiet morning. He looked at me through the windshield—one last glance—and then the truck was moving, pulling away down the drive, growing smaller until the road curved and he disappeared behind the trees.
Gone.
The house swallowed me when I stepped back inside. I closed the door and stood in the silence, listening to the absence of him. No footsteps. No breathing. No weight shifting on the floorboards. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the settling of old wood.
I walked back to the bedroom. Sat down on the bed we’d shared, the sheets still tangled from the night.
His coffee cup sat on the nightstand. I picked it up, turned it in my hands, studied the ring it had left on the wood. Such a small thing. Such an ordinary thing. But it meant he’d been here. That this was real. That hours ago, he’d stood in this room and drunk coffee and been simply, quietly present.
I set it back down carefully, preserving the ring.
How long until he came back? Days, he’d said. Maybe a week.
The silence pressed in around me, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of waiting. Full of the held breath between goodbye and hello, the suspended moment before you knew if the story ended well or badly.
I pulled his pillow against my chest—not for the scent, though it carried traces of him, but for the weight of it. Something to hold. Something to anchor me while I waited.
The fear was still there. Of course it was. But underneath it, quieter and steadier, was something else.
Hope.
I held on to both and started counting the minutes until he came home.
Chapter 25
Mia
We were twenty minutes from my apartment, and Lark was in the middle of a story about a horse that had bitten Beckett’s hat clean off his head. I was trying my best to listen.
