"Me too."
She's quiet for another beat. Her hand moves slightly, like she wants to say something but doesn't know how.
"You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine, Hazel."
The words come out flatter than I mean them to. She pulls her hand back. Just an inch. But I feel it.
She doesn't push. Just settles back in her seat, arms crossed now.
The silence isn't comfortable anymore.
When we reach my cabin, I expect her to say something. To acknowledge the distance opening between us.
She doesn't.
Just follows me inside, and the second the door closes behind us, she's on me.
Kissing me hard. Desperate. Her hands already tugging at my shirt.
I kiss her back, hands finding her hips, pulling her against me. Part of me knows this is avoidance. That we should talk about what she said at the lake.
But I don't want to talk.
I want this. Her hands on me. Her body against mine. Proof that she's still here, still mine, even if it's just right now.
Clothes come off and we fall into bed, and for a while nothing else matters.
***
After, she's curled against my side, her head on my chest, breathing soft and even. Asleep, maybe. Or close to it.
I stare at the ceiling, my hand running slow circles on her bare shoulder.
This morning I woke up thinking I had everything I wanted.
Her here. With me. Every morning. Every night.
I thought it meant something.
This is enough, I tell myself now. Right now. This moment. Her here with me.
This is enough.
But it's not.
Because I heard what she said tonight. Keeping her options open. Taking it day by day. Her leave already ended, and she still doesn't know if she's staying.
She's here. But she's not mine. Not really.
Not the way I need her to be.
I pull her closer, pressing my face into her hair, and tell myself it doesn't matter.
This is enough. It has to be.
But the tightness in my chest doesn't ease.
