The words hang there between us, heavier than I meant them to be. She frowns faintly, eyes still closed, and I feel it hit somewhere deep in my chest. Is she thinking about this push and pull we have between us? And despite all that, she’s what scares me most. Because this—her, us—it feels a hell of a lot like home.
“Sam.” She gently kisses my chest before looking at me. “How long can you stay?”
“A few more hours.”
Her smile falters, and the air between us stretches thin and pointed, weighted with the ache of too little time.
My lips press against her forehead, then the corner of her mouth. “I’ll call you when I land.”
“You’d better.”
We move slowly, making breakfast half-dressed, sharing coffee in the kitchen. Every brush of her hand against mine feels heavier than it should. A quiet reminder that this isn’t just casual, no matter what she wants to call it.
She leans against the counter, sipping her coffee, wearing nothing but one of my shirts. The hem barely covers her thighs, and the sight nearly undoes me. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Can’t.” I shrug, completely surrendering to the truth. I never stood a chance with this woman.
It’s easy between us, almost too easy. And that’s what scares me most.
Because I can see it now—how quickly this could all unravel once I’m gone.
The texts, the calls, the distance. She’ll get busy with work, and I’ll get buried in mine. She’ll convince herself it’s easier to let go than hold on.
I’ve been there before. I know the signs.
But this time feels different.
When I leave, I pull her close, one arm around her waist, my lips finding the place just below her ear, her favorite spot. “I’ll see you soon, mon trésor.”
She smiles, but her eyes give her away. There’s worry there. Fear, maybe. The same kind that’s been sitting in my chest since the moment I met her.
As I walk down her path outside her front door toward the waiting car, I glance back. She’s still standing there, watching me. And for a second, I think she might call out, tell me to stay. I shouldn’t. Yet, I would.
But she doesn’t.
She just lifts her hand, a small wave, the kind that saysI want to, but I can’t.
The door closes softly behind her, and that’s when it hits me. For all her talk ofcasual, there’s nothing casual about the way she looks at me. Nothing casual about the way she’s lodged herself under my skin.
And as the plane lifts off later that afternoon, I know I’m already gone—not just back to Montreal, but gone in a way that has nothing to do with geography.
Because the truth is, somewhere between her laughter, her stubbornness, and her quiet strength…
I fell.
And I’m not sure I know how to stop falling.
26
OLIVIA
The rest of the summer slips through my fingers like warm sand, each grain a memory of Sam. Somehow, we’ve found a rhythm, comfortable but never dull. Between our daily texts, the teasing banter that sometimes turns into shameless sexting, and the late-night phone calls that stretch far past reason, we’ve carved out something that feels…ours.
Most weeks, one of us makes the trip—him here, me there. Sometimes life gets in the way, and we make do with a screen and a voice. It’s not enough, but it’s something.
Still, I miss him. God, do I miss him.
I miss him the moment he walks away.
