Page 7

Present

A t the airport, I change into more comfortable clothes and trash what I had been wearing. I switch my return flight to Atlanta instead of Miami. Five hours later, I’m in Georgia and driving a cozy street lined with lovely quiet houses.

I park my car across from his house which radiates a warm welcome. Lush greenery stretches along either side of the central front door, glossy leaves stroking the ground-floor window sills.

It’s a little after six am now and the sun is just beginning its ascent. I lift the fake rock at the side door and let myself in. His distinct scent hits me so aggressively that I almost tear up at the comfort it brings.

In the living room, I run my fingers over the spines of his book collection. I pull one out just enough to see that the journal wrapped in a random hardcover book jacket is still there. Hidden on a shelf, pretending to be something it’s not. He’d kill me if he knew. The history of us.

I toe off my shoes and pants as I head toward the staircase. I drop my shirt on the landing. He won’t have much time before work at this point. Opening the door to his bedroom, I watch him for a moment, sleeping so soundly. Instantaneously, everything inside me rights itself.

I sneak across the carpeted floor, lift the blankets, and slide in next to him. He gives a sleepy groan as my arms snake around him.

“I know you said you’d text, but… I’m here.”

A sleepy little grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as his arms envelop me. “You’re such a little shit,” he rasps into my ear.

I kiss the soft spot under his ear lobe, trailing kisses along his jaw to his full lips.

He hums against my lips, his body warm and solid beneath my touch. His hands slide down my back, pulling me in closer, anchoring me. His grip tightens like he knows—like he always knows—when I need to feel held together.

I kiss him deeper, tasting sleep and familiarity, his breath mixing with mine. His fingers skim up my spine, threading through my hair, tilting my head the way he likes. It’s slow. Unrushed. Like he has all the time in the world for me, even though I never stay long.

He breaks the kiss first, his forehead resting against mine, his thumb brushing my cheek.

“Rough night?” His voice is a quiet rasp, but the weight of the question lands like a blow.

I swallow, tightening my grip on him. “Something like that.”

His sigh is knowing, heavy. His fingers stroke along my bare hip, but he doesn’t press. He never does. He just lets me take what I need, lets me exist in this stolen moment before reality rips me away again.

“Stay,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over my temple.

I squeeze my eyes shut. If I let myself, I could pretend. Pretend that I don’t have blood under my nails. Pretend that I’m not a woman who has carved a path of destruction back to the people who made me this way. Pretend that this—this warmth, this safety—is something I could ever really have.

I press another lingering kiss to his lips, breathing him in. “You know I can’t.”

His hands tighten against me, his jaw flexing as he fights whatever words want to spill free. I know what they are. They’re the same ones he always gives me. The same ones I’ll never listen to.

Instead, he exhales slowly, pulling me closer, like he can keep me here through sheer force of will.

“Then shut up and let me love you while I’ve got you.”

I relent, just for a moment, letting myself melt into his arms. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow, there will be no part of me left to hold. But tonight—even if it’s the last—I can give him this.

Later, when he drifts asleep, I slip from the bed without a sound. Every movement is quiet agony; every shift of my weight threatens to wake him. I pause in the doorway, memorizing the rise and fall of his chest.