Meanwhile, I'm having an internal meltdown, every nerve ending on fire, every thought spiraling into chaos.
How is he not finding this as surreal and devastating as I am?
Then I hear him give a little laugh.
When I look over, he's smirking at the ground, and something about that expression—so familiar, so him—makes my chest tighten with longing.
"What's so funny?"I ask, confusion clear in my voice.
"This," he says, looking at me with that half-crooked smile that used to undo me completely.Still does, apparently.
"This?"
"Yeah, this.Us.Here.Of all places."
“Suppose the universe likes messing with us."
"No," he says, and his voice carries that edge of dark humor I remember, "it loves to fuck with us."
"That's more accurate."
And just like that, we slip back into our old rhythm—the easy banter, the shared understanding.My body seems to remember how to exist next to his, even after eight months of practicing how to live without him.
We walk in comfortable silence for a few steps before pain shoots through my feet.
"Ugh."
"What's wrong?"
There's genuine worry in his voice, and I catch that flicker of concern crossing his face.
"These stupid, overpriced shoes.They're killing my feet.And these cobblestone streets don't help."
I stop walking and try to undo the straps, but my hands are shaking and the buckles are tiny and impossible.
"Stop."
Before I can object, he's kneeling in front of me on the street, his fingers gentle as he works the strap loose.
The sight of him kneeling there, head bent in concentration, caring for me like this is the most natural thing in the world, makes my breath catch.
He moves to the second shoe, his touch careful and reverent, and instead of standing when he's done, he looks up at me.
His hands are still wrapped around my ankle, thumb brushing across skin, and for a moment, I swear I can hear the universe laughing at us both.
"Get on," he says, his voice rougher than before.
"What?"
"You're not walking barefoot all the way to your hotel.Get on my back."
"That's ridiculous, I’m not doing that.”
"You used to do it all the time."
"Yeah, when I was like five."
"Either get on my back or I carry you.In my arms."
