After a long moment, I carefully pull out. She makes a small sound of protest.
"Too tired..." Her eyes don't even open. "Can't move..."
"I know, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."
I get up. Bathroom. Warm cloth. My reflection in the mirror catches me—nail marks down my shoulders, scratches across my chest, a bruise forming on my collarbone where she bit me during the wall. Evidence. Beautiful evidence.
When I come back, she hasn't moved. Still lying on her side. Breathing slow and deep.
I clean her gently. Between her legs. Down her thighs. She's too exhausted to do anything but let me—a level of trust that makes my throat tighten.
When I'm done, I toss the cloth aside and climb back into bed. Pull her against me. Tuck her into the curve of my body. She fits right. She always has.
"Thank you," she mumbles. Already half asleep.
I kiss her hair. "Sleep."
She does. Within seconds, her breathing evens out. Her body goes completely slack against mine.
I stay awake.
She trusted me with her first.
Not casually. Not carelessly.
I’m not going to let this turn into a story about a week onan island.
I’m not going to be a memory.
I’m going to be the beginning.
Outside, the sky has gone the color of a bruise—deep violet bleeding into indigo at the edges.
The ceiling fan turns overhead, stirring air that still smells like us—salt and sex and the fading sweetness of coconut lotion.
The ocean keeps its rhythm beyond the window. Constant. Patient. The only thing on this island that doesn't have a departure time.
In a few hours, this ends.
Not us—I refuse to believe that.
But this. The bubble. The borrowed time. The version of us that exists in palm trees and salt air and a casita that isn't ours.
She stirs in her sleep. Presses closer. Her hand finds mine on her stomach, fingers lacing through mine, and even unconscious, she holds on.
The bracelet on her wrist catches the growing moonlight.
Jan 24, 2026. Us.
The day I caught her at the pool. The day my hands found her waist and something inside my chest cracked open and refused to close.
I tighten my arms around her.
Not letting go. Not yet.
Not ever.
Stars appearing one by one through the window, and I watch them multiply and think about distance. Boston to New York. New York to wherever I land. The gap between what we built here and what survives the real world.
