The observation lands with uncomfortable accuracy. I deflect because that’s what I do. “So, you’re saying I need a rug.”
She laughs, nudging me. “A rug would be a start. Maybe some throw pillows. Something that suggests you’re planning to stay a while.”
“Throw pillows are a gateway drug to scented candles,” I say solemnly.
“God forbid you add ambiance to your life.”
We talk about decorative baskets, but then something occurs to me. “You know, you may think my place reminds you of how I was when we met, but from my perspective, this place is actually kinda like you right now.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Explain yourself.”
“You’re moving to Saint Petersburg. Brand new start. Feels empty at first, but you’ll make it yours.”
“That was surprisingly poetic,” she admits.
“I have my moments,” I say.
As we finish dinner in the living room, I rise and offer my hand. When she slips hers into mine, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. I lead her down the short hallway, the air between us charged, her footsteps a quiet echo behind mine. I push my bedroom door open, and for a heartbeat she lingers in the threshold. I let her take it in before she looks up at me, smiles, then walks into the room ahead of me, now leading me.
My bedroom is just as personality-free as the rest of the place—dresser next to the bed and a lamp that works, I think, and an alarm clock because I refuse to bring my phone into my bedroom. But with Petra here, it transforms into something else. A clock counting down. A museum of last times.
We sit, staring at each other, the quiet stretching until she breaks it.
“That dinner,” she says, a smile tugging at her lips, “was one of the best I’ve ever had. Unforgettable.”
I laugh. “You mean the dumplings that fell apart?”
She shakes her head. “I mean the way you made it for me. That’s what I’ll remember.”
“I’m happy to hear that. I sure hope it’s not the last meal I make for you.”
She goes quiet.
I lean in and kiss her like I’m trying to download her entire existence into my memory. Like if I’m thorough enough, I can carry the taste of her through the upcoming drought. My hands know her geography by heart, but tonight they’re desperate cartographers, mapping territories I’m about to lose.
We lie down as she traces the terrain of my back with fingers that feel like goodbye, finding the spot where I carry tension, the scar from where I got cut with a high stick as a kid, and the place at the base of my spine that makes me shiver every time.
When I find a sensitive spot below her ear, she gasps my name.
“Shh,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ve got you.”
I roll us over, so she’s beneath me, and just stare for a moment, trying to solve the equation of us. How do you hold onto something that’s already leaving? How do you savor someone properly when there’s an expiration date?
She traces my cheek, her thumb finding my lips. “I hate this.”
“Hate what?” Though I know.
“That we only found this now. That I have to leave just when we—” she exhales. “Just when we started.”
The words escape before I can stop them. “Then don’t go.”
“Liam…”
“I know,” I say quickly, shaking my head because taking it back feels necessary even though I mean it with every cell in my body. “I know you have to go. I know youshouldgo.” I exhale. “But I still hate it.”
She cups my face. “Me too.”
We kiss again, different this time. Desperate. Raw. Like we’re trying to consume enough of each other to survive the famine that’s coming.
