"That doesn't count as a gift."
"Doesn't it?"
"West—" My face is burning. "You can't say things like that when I'm trying to have a maturegoodbye conversation."
His expression shifts. Something softer but more intense.
"Who said anything about goodbye?"
The word hangs between us. I didn't mean it. Or I did, but not the way it sounded. Not the permanent version.
"I just mean—"
"I know what you mean." His thumbs draw slow circles on my hips. "This isn't a goodbye."
"It's a logistical transition."
"Sure."
"An intermission."
"If you want."
"A geographically mandated pause."
"Jane."
"What?"
"Stop naming it and let me hold you."
So I do. Step forward until my forehead rests against his chest and his arms close around me and I can hear his heartbeat through the cotton—steady, reliable, the kind of rhythm you could build something on. My hands press flat against his back, feeling the broad planes of muscle, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric.
He smells like that soap. Clean linen and something woodsy underneath, and the faintest trace of salt from the humidity that never fully leaves the air here. I've been breathing this scent for a week and I'm already calculating how long it'll take to fade from his T-shirt after I steal it.
Because I am absolutely stealing his shirt.
The alarm screams again.
"Okay." I step back. "Now we really have to go."
He grabs our carry-ons—mine in his left hand, his in his right—and pulls his rolling suitcase behind him like it weighs no more than tissue paper. I reach for my bag.
"I've got it."
"It'smycarry-on."
"And?"
"And I'm a capable adult woman who can carry her own—"
He's already out the door.
I take one last look at the casita. The unmade bed. The coffee mugs. The dent in the plaster I'm going to pretendI didn't notice.
Stop it.
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
