Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or hope.
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
He stepped back, putting more distance between them. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the only visible sign of the control he was exerting.
"If you need anything?—"
"I know where to find you."
"I'll leave you alone. Let you think. Whatever you need."
I need you to stop being so fucking perfect,she thought viciously.I need you to give me a reason to run.
But he wouldn't. He'd stand there and support her even as she walked away. He'd be patient and kind and understanding even as she destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to her.
"Tarmek."
"Yeah?"
I love you.
The words lodged in her throat, too big to escape, too terrifying to release.
"Thank you. For everything."
His expression shuttered.
"Sure."
He turned and walked away, that controlled stride carrying him across the parking lot towards the arena entrance. She watched until he disappeared through the doors, until she was alone with her packed boxes and her supposedly reclaimed independence.
The camper felt smaller than she remembered. Colder. Emptier.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her eyes until colors bloomed behind her lids.
This is what I wanted,she told herself.Freedom. Space. The option to leave without obligation.
She'd been chasing this feeling for years. The lightness of impermanence. The safety of superficial connections. The protection that came from never staying long enough to get hurt.
But none of those things felt light anymore.
They felt heavy. They felt like loss.
She unpacked mechanically, finding homes for things that no longer seemed to fit. Her clothes went in the narrow closet, her art supplies on the tiny shelf, her toiletries in the crampedbathroom. Everything exactly where it used to be, everything in its proper place.
It should have felt familiar.
It felt wrong.
She kept reaching for things that weren't there. The coffee mug he'd bought her, the one with the ridiculous sloth print that made her laugh every morning. The extra blanket she'd "borrowed" from the guest room closet and never returned. The pillow that smelled like his shampoo—cedar and something darker, something uniquely him.
Temporary, the mantra insisted. It was only temporary.
But her hands shook as she hung up her scarves, and her throat ached as she tucked away her sketches, and when she finally sat down on her narrow bed—the bed she'd slept in for years, the bed that should have felt like home—all she could think about was the way Tarmek's arms had felt around her.
