I kissed him because I didn't have words for anything else. His mouth was cool from the water and warm underneath, and his hands came up to cup my face, holding me there while the pool lights rippled around us.
This kiss was different from the ones before. There was no urgency to it, no desperation. Just his mouth against mine, and the water holding us up, and the night sky stretching out overhead.
When we finally pulled apart, Red was smiling.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He brushed his thumb across my cheekbone. "I just like you."
It was such a simple thing to say, and yet no one had ever said it to me before.
"I like you too," I said.
Red's smile widened. Then he dunked me under the water and swam away laughing, and I came up sputtering and chased him across the pool, and for a little while we were just two people in the water.
I woke up before Joel for the third day in a row.
He was still asleep beside me, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm thrown across my chest like he'd reached for me in the night and forgotten to let go. The tension he carried everywhere else had drained out of him.
I stayed there for a long time, watching him sleep. Then I slid out from under his arm and went to make coffee.
The kitchen was bright with morning sun. I'd figured out the espresso machine on Thursday, after twenty minutes of swearing and one close call with the steam wand. Now the routine came without thinking: beans, grind, tamp, pull.
I found flour in the pantry, eggs in the fridge, and butter softening on the counter from where Joel had left it out last night. There was no buttermilk, but milk and a splash of lemon juice would do. I'd learned to improvise years ago, back when Dad's appetite was unpredictable and I'd had to work with whatever was in the house.
The batter came together easy. I let it rest while I sliced strawberries, then ladled circles onto the hot pan and watched the bubbles form.
Three days of waking up together and falling asleep the same way, of Joel's face when he finally got the eggs right and my hands guiding his on the knife when we made dinner. Three days of pretending we were people who could have this.
Tomorrow was Sunday, our last day in this rented house. Then we’d have to fly back our separate cities, our separate lives.
I flipped the pancakes and kept my mind on the batter.
The tray was harder to find. I finally located one in a cabinet above the refrigerator, dusty and clearly decorative, probably included in the rental for exactly this kind of moment. I loaded it up: pancakes, strawberries, maple syrup in a little pitcher, two cups of coffee. It looked like a magazine spread.
I carried it down the hall to the bedroom.
Joel was still asleep. The light had shifted while I'd been cooking, falling across the bed in warm stripes, catching the mess of his dark hair against the white pillow. He'd rolled onto his back at some point, the sheet pooled low on his hips, one hand resting on his bare stomach.
I stood in the doorway.
"Take a picture, Red. It’ll last longer."
His voice was rough with sleep, his eyes still closed.
“I was thinking about it,” I replied. “You’re very photogenic.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.” He opened his eyes then, squinting against the light, and his gaze found the tray in my hands. "You made breakfast.”
"I made pancakes." I crossed to the bed and set the tray on the nightstand. "Figured we earned them."
Joel sat up slowly, the sheet falling to his waist. He kept staring at the tray like he was waiting for it to disappear.
"I don't—" He hesitated. "I don't usually eat pancakes."
"Ever?"
"My diet is..." He trailed off, shook his head. "It doesn't matter. They smell good."
