Nate threads his fingers through mine, and we fall into a quiet thumb war—childish yet still comforting.
“Will you come back to Eden with me?”
His thumb freezes and just like that the game ends instantly.
He sits up, running a hand through his hair.His back is to me, the new tattoos winding over his shoulders like armor he built himself.Armor over old wounds.
“I don’t think I can go back to Eden,” he says.His voice isn’t cold—just honest.And that hurts more.
“Not yet?”I ask.“Or ever?”
He turns, meeting my eyes.Something troubled flickers behind his.
“Come here.”
I sit beside him.His fingers brush my hair back, gentle in a way that makes my throat tighten then he presses a slow kiss to my forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.“But I can’t.”
The apology is soft, sincere, but it cuts clean.
What was I thinking—that one night, one morning, could erase years of history, could make everything simple?That wanting each other this badly meant we were suddenly capable of being whole?
It hits me how naive I’ve been.
He’s in a place I can’t reach, and I’m somewhere else entirely.Eden isn’t an option, and neither is London—not without bending ourselves into shapes we weren’t made to fit.Maybe we’re just two people who belong together in moments, but not in life.And the truth stings more than any goodbye ever could.
"I need to shower," I say, standing abruptly."And look at flights."
"Nora, wait?—"
He reaches for me, but the moment his fingers brush my wrist, something inside me flinches.Not away from him—never from him—but from the crushing weight of everything we haven't said.
Everything we keep circling without ever daring to touch.
I step back instead.
"I just need a minute," I whisper, even though we both know I need more than that.
I need distance and air.
In the bathroom, the steam fogs the mirror, but it's the reflection of my own uncertainty that feels hardest to face.The water runs over my skin, but it doesn't wash away the longing or the ache or the quiet devastation of realizing that wanting each other hasn't magically solved the parts of us that are still broken.
When I step out, the villa feels different.Like something has already shifted between us while I was behind the door.
We move around each other for the rest of the day like we're made of glass—careful, fragile, pretending neither of us feels the crack forming.
He makes me coffee.
I book the flight.
He pretends not to watch me pack.
I pretend not to see the way his shoulders tense every time I zip something closed.
We sleep together that night, but not like before.Not urgently or hungrily.This time it feels like memorizing—hands lingering, breaths syncing, both of us silently terrified this might be the last time.
In the morning, he drives me to the airport without question.And suddenly, we’re here parked in his car outside Málaga airport, my suitcase in the backseat and my heart somewhere around my ankles.
