“Fiona knows the water,” I pressed on, the words stumbling out. “She’ll find the island on the chart. She can get you there. She has to.”
I heard myself.
I heard myself rambling. Couldn’t stop it.
Because this—this part right here—this mattered more than anything had ever before.
She shifted. Rose up slightly on her toes. Her hands came up and framed my face—both hands, warm and steady against my jaw, her thumbs tracing the lines beneath my eyes where exhaustion and worry were permanently carved.
And she kissed me.
Soft this time.
Slow.
Her lips moved against mine like she meant it, slow and careful, the kiss you give someone you’re not sure you’ll see again. It nearly broke me.
All of it went quiet.
Just her.
Just this.
Just the impossible, unbearable sweetness of something found too late.
“I promise,” she whispered, her breath faint against my lips.
I searched her face.
Every line. Every shadow. The tear that had slipped down her left cheek without her seeming to notice. The way her chin stayed set even though her lower lip trembled.
I needed to believe it.
Needed to know she would follow through—that she’d leave me bleeding in a gutter if it meant Lily and Fiona made it to that boat.
She nodded once.
Firm.
True.
And that—that had to be enough.
She pulled away before I could say anything else. Before I could reach for her again. Before the selfish, desperate part of me could beg her to stay on this roof where I could keep her close and keep her safe and pretend the world below didn’t exist.
She turned.
Moved toward the stairs.
As she went, her hand caught mine for a moment—a brief, tight press—before she let go.
And she disappeared through the door.
Back to the girls.
Back to the plan.
I stood there.
