Outside one of the horses blew softly in the dark.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he murmured.
“Yeah.”
“I’m set to stay for another six months to finish shooting.”
I sighed. Closed my eyes.
“...yeah.”
Neither of us said anything after that.
His hand kept moving. Up my side. Down. The slow stroke of someone who wasn't ready to stop touching.
I stared at the small window and the stars and thought about my pickup shot at seven in the morning and the drive to Albuquerque and the flight home and my abuela's kitchen table and everything that was waiting for me in San Antonio that had nothing to do with this trailer, this man, this night.
Six months.
He was here for six more months and I was leaving at dawn and we'd just?—
I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in.
"I want to do this again," I said. Quietly. Into his skin.
His hand stilled on my side.
"Yeah," he said.
"That's not—" I lifted my head. Looked at him in the low light. "I don't mean tonight. I mean?—"
"I know what you mean."
"Do you?"
He looked at me for a long moment. His thumb moved against my ribs.
"You're going home tomorrow," he said.
"Yes."
"And I'm here until December."
"Yes."
"And Millie's your best friend."
"Sawyer."
"I'm not—" He exhaled. "I'm not saying no. I'm just—" He looked at the ceiling. Back at me. "I want to be clear about what we're doing."
"I don't know what we're doing," I said. "I just know I don't want tonight to be the only time."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he rolled toward me, propped on one elbow, and looked down at my face in the dim light the way he'd looked at me in the paddock when he was deciding something.
"Okay," he said.
