Then not.
Hands learning each other like we had all the time in the world.
The little cabin filling with heat and tangled sheets and whispered my-names and don’t-stop laughs that turned soft and desperate.
And then?—
Darkness.
The boat rocking gentle and steady.
Her skin warm against mine.
Legs tangled.
Heartbeats slowing together.
Like the harbor itself was cradling us to sleep.
Every night the same.
Every night better.
Like we were building something no one else could touch.
I’d lie there afterward with her head on my chest, tracing lazy patterns on her shoulder while the hull knocked softly against the water, thinking?—
This is it.
This is what people mean when they say home.
The gang finally cornered me at lunch.
Newbury Street.
Outdoor café.
White umbrellas. Sunglasses. Sun blasting off storefront windows so hard it made everything look like a postcard.
Beth picking at a salad like she always did when she was stressed.
Chris demolishing a burger with both hands.
Mark already halfway through a beer even though it wasn’t even noon yet.
And Tony?—
Tony leaning back in his chair like he owned the sidewalk, aviators on, sleeves rolled, looking like some trust-fund yacht ad.
They all stopped talking the second I sat down.
Four heads turned.
Same expression.
Intervention energy.
“Oh no,” I said, dropping into the chair. “What.”
