“I know.” But my hands remain on her waist, thumbs stroking slow circles that contradict my words.
“I’m leaving.” Her voice cracks on the word, and something in my chest breaks with it.
“I know.” The reminder sits between us like a third person, unwelcome and undeniable.
We stare at each other. The weight of everything we’re not saying crushing the air from the room.
Then she yawns.
She’s exhausted. Been running on fumes for days, and here I am keeping her up because I can’t let go.
“You need sleep,” I say.
“I need to pack.”
“Pack tomorrow.”
“My flight—”
“Is at two. You can pack in the morning.”
She should argue. Should go back to the guest house. Should put distance between us while she can.
Instead, she curls into my side. Rests her head on my shoulder. “Five minutes.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it. Just five minutes then I’ll go.”
“Okay.”
Her breathing evens out in three.
I sit there, her weight against me, staring at the clock. 12:47 a.m.
Thirteen hours.
She shifts in her sleep. Burrows closer. Her hand finds mine, fingers threading together like they belong there.
I should wake her. Send her to bed. Protect us both from whatever this is becoming.
Instead, I hold her tighter.
Because in thirteen hours she’ll be gone.
And I’ll go back to being the guy who doesn’t feel things.
Except now I know that guy was bullshit.
Now I know what it’s like to have Poppy Monroe asleep in my arms.
And tomorrow, I have to let her go.
I close my eyes. Not to sleep. Just to memorize this.
The weight of her.
The sound of her breathing.
