Her gaze softens.
“Sure thing, husband,” she quips.
I manage a grin, even though the word husband brings back the memory of what I told her. How much I liked her.
“So,” she asks, “are you ready to go home?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
And I really am.
I want to get back to our little bubble. The quiet rhythm we’ve built without even trying.
I like having Talia in my house.
I like her yoga mat in the living room.
I like seeing her in the morning, hair messy, face bare.
I like watching her paint. Sharing meals with her. Existing in the same space.
Right now, I can’t think of a single thing I don’t like.
Huh.
“We should pack,” I say, too brisk.
Talia watches me for a beat, then nods. “Yeah.”
We pack in companionable silence.
I glance at her as she rolls a dress carefully and tucks it into her suitcase.
She catches me looking.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s a lie.”
I exhale. “I’m… glad we’re going home.”
Her expression softens slightly.
“Me too,” she says.
I hesitate, then say the truth I haven’t let myself admit out loud yet.
“I can’t believe how… comfortable it is,” I mutter.
Her brows lift. “Comfortable.”
“Having you there,” I say, keeping my eyes on my suitcase like it’s fascinating. “In my house.”
There’s a small pause.
Then she says softly, “Yeah?”
