The whole conversation about Mount Sinai completely threw me off, but he keeps claiming it doesn't mean anything.
Maybe it doesn't; maybe it's just my anxiety that doesn't allow me to trust people and keeps me thinking they'll always leave me.
I don't even want to go when I think of everything we've done together, and it's been a lot.
I'll miss him reading me—literally.
Ben bought every edition and cover of my books and arranged them in the library like we owned the place. At night, he pulls one down, flips to a random page and reads.
Sometimes he'll quiz me—what did you mean here?—as ifhe wants to see if my meaning matches his. Usually it does.
And then there's that new talent he says I sparked in him—he turned into a beautifully perverse poet. Red stickies are left all around the apartment whenever the muse strikes.
I pluck my favorite off my luggage handle.Show me where your starlight pools, and I'll dive, mouth-first.
"Hey, you're not touching that," Ben calls.
I turn to him while he stands in the kitchen, finishing the bodega sandwiches and pointing at me. It's technically a breakfast dish but we eat it all the time.
Smirking, I put the note back on the handle. "Alright. TSA is going to love this one."
"Also—" He hands me the sandwich and pulls out myI'm Red Velvet For Himset from the luggage. "You're wearing this on the plane. And yes, I will supervise."
My brows quirk. "How? You're not even on my flight."
"I'm not telling you, but just know—" He taps his eyes with two fingers, then gestures at me, the unspokenI'm watching yousign.
I laugh and we both plop on the sofa by the window.
The city outside softens, the sky turning gold above Central Park.
We're the first building on its edge, so from here you can see everything—even the thin silver of the Hudson in the distance.
New York sunsets this time of year shouldn't be this breathtaking, but they are since I get to experience them with him. For once, I can appreciate them for what they are.
"But if you're not next to me, it's going to point to someone else," I press. "Are you trying to get the guy next to me to flirt?"
"There's no guy next to you. You're in first class."
I blink. "What? You got me first class?"
Chewing, he nods. "You wear that outfit, stick my photo on top—instant armor."
"Armor that costs a fortune," I protest, mouth half full. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to. This way you'll be comfortable."
"I'm totally fine flying coach. I love the thrill of fighting for elbow space and tepid coffee," I joke.
He smiles softly. "I like that you haven't changed. You're still the same girl who doesn't splurge. But now—You're my girl. Mine. Only mine. Which means I get to ruin you in the most decadent ways."
"That ship has sailed. You spoiled me beyond reparation." I sort of bat my eyes. Blink them once, twice. "But I don't want you bleeding money over me."
He puts both our sandwiches on the table and pulls me on his lap to straddle him, then puts his hands on my back.
"Emma, I didn't joke when I saidwehave plenty of money," he says, purposely weighing the wordwe. "If I can get you anything, I will. Always."
"Fine then," I say, scheming as I tap my chin. "Next time—private jet. Otherwise, I'll throw a full toddler tantrum."
