Page 62 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

No one says a word, but the truth hangs heavy, thick as smoke. Every movement comes slower, softer, as if time’s trying to drag its feet, handing us a few more stolen seconds before she goes.

She’s curled up on the floor in one of Nate’s hoodies, legs folded tight, hair falling loose around her face.

Old prints from that photography shop are spread out in front of her, and she’s holding them the way most people hold treasure. She looks so fucking at home it punches something sharp through my chest.

I nudge Nate.

He disappears down the hall without a word and comes back with the suitcase. No wrap, no card, only us standing like a couple of idiots holding a gift we wish we didn’t have to give.

Her eyes land on the suitcase. “What’s this?”

Nate jerks his chin. “One that closes without a hoodie doing all the work.”

Her laugh fills the room, same as always, only this time the sound cuts.

She stands and runs her hand along the handle. “Thank you. It’s so bright. I love this. You guys didn’t have to.”

“We did,” I tell her, my mouth twitching into a smirk I can’t fully fake. “Your old one was more fucked than a Vegas pro on a double shift. It was practically stripping in public.”

She pauses, giving me that maddening smile, all soft edges with something dangerous buried underneath. “Never change, Theo.”

Three simple words, yet they hit with the force of a freight train.

She goes to Nate first. Wraps her arms around his neck in that easy way that says she trusts him. His arms come around, holding her as if loosening his grip might split him open. His jaw tightens, eyes dropping, shoulders refusing to let go even when the moment starts to stretch.

I watch him, every muscle in me screaming for him to ask the thing I can’t get out. Ask her to stay. Because maybe if he does, she will.

But, he doesn’t.

She turns to me, and my arms close around her before my head catches up.

I keep her there, locked against me, memorizing the feel of her.

The line of her shoulder under my palm, the warmth bleeding through my shirt, the way her breath moves against me.

If I could hold her long enough to make time stall, I would.

Her hair brushes my jaw, carrying the soft scent of vanilla shampoo and something that is only hers. The ache spreads through my chest, until I swear it might crush me.

“You’re squishing me,” she murmurs into my shirt.

I smirk, resting my chin on her head. “Please. After putting up with you, this is the least painful part of my week.”

She laughs, but doesn’t pull away.

My eyes flick to Nate.

He’s watching us.

She shifts. Her arms loosen. She eases back enough to draw a breath, and her fingers swipe at the corner of her eye in a quick motion.

“I have something for both of you,” she says. Her voice is light, but there’s a flicker behind her eyes, half mischief, half nerves.

Before either of us can ask, she spins on her heels and bolts down the hall. Bare feet slapping against the tiles.

Nate and I stand still, watching where she vanished.

“Should we be worried?” Nate mutters.

“Only if she comes back with glitter or a live chicken,” I say. “If it’s handcuffs, I’m not asking questions.”

Nate groans. “You need therapy.”

“Probably,” I reply, because we both know that will never happen.

We are both smirking, because Quinn has a way of turning any quiet moment into a small-scale disaster.

Her footsteps reach us before she does. Quick, uneven, almost tripping over her own excitement.

Nate and I exchange a look.

“Brace yourself,” I tell him.

She skids into the doorway, cheeks flushed, hair a little wilder than before, holding something behind her back.

She remains silent, grinning as if she is guarding a secret big enough to blow the roof off the place.

“Well, I don’t hear a chicken,” I say, giving her a slow once-over. “We’re off to a strong start.”

Her brows draw together. “A chicken?”

I jerk my chin toward Nate. “He’s gutted. Already had a name picked out. Was gonna call it Cluck Norris.”

Nate groans and rubs his forehead. “I swear to God, Theo.”

Quinn takes a small step forward, her hands still tucked behind her back.

She hesitates, eyes moving between us. There’s a flicker of nerves in her smile, the kind you get when you’re about to hand over something that you’re unsure about.

“I wanted to give you this,” she says quietly.

A pause stretches long enough for my stomach to knot.

Her hands shift and she brings the gift forward.

My gaze drops to the dark sheen of a plain wooden photo frame.

I have no idea what I expected, but it isn’t this. The image is from the studio. Nate and I are shoulder to shoulder, caught mid-laugh, eyes locked on each other. The rest of the room fades into a soft blur, every detail except us slipping out of focus.

The grin tugging at my mouth, the spark in Nate’s eyes, the way his head tips toward mine. All of it caught. Not posed, not planned. The truth, wide open.

I see it now.

The way I look at him, the way he looks at me. Words have never touched it, but the truth bleeds through every line of that photo. The kind of thing you can’t fake, no matter how hard you try.

Her voice breaks through the quiet. “This is you. This is what I see.”

Nate stands still for a long moment, the frame in his hand, his eyes softer than I’ve seen in months.

He studies the photo quietly, his jaw working once before he draws in a slow breath.

After that, he steps forward and wraps his arm around Quinn.

His hold is firm, almost protective, the kind of embrace that carries a whole conversation without a single word.

I stay where I am, letting the scene breathe.

A part of me wants to tell him to say it—to ask her to stay—but the words sit heavy in my throat and never make it out.

After a moment I close the distance and slide an arm around her and Nate, and suddenly the three of us are pressed together, close enough to catch each other’s breath.

The weight that has been pressing down on me today lifts a fraction.

The heaviness isn’t gone, but for a heartbeat, the ache almost seems manageable.

I am the first to let go, ruffling her hair as I step back. “Thanks, Quinn. But seriously, next time I’m holding out for the chicken. Would have really tied the room together.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Theo, I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about half the time.”

I grin, tipping my head toward her. “That’s fine. Most people do not understand me fully clothed either.”

Before she can fire back, I hook my hands around her waist and lift her clean off the ground. Startled, she squeals, her laughter spilling into the air as I start carrying her toward the bedroom.

The hoodie she’s wearing bunches in my grip, her legs kicking lightly against me.

“Come on, Nate,” I call over my shoulder. “Let’s give our girl one last night to remember.”

The words hang for a beat, hitting me harder than I expect. Our girl.

And fuck… did I really say that?

The ride to the airport is fucking suffocating.

Nate’s in the driver seat, knuckles white around the steering wheel, his whole body wound tight enough to snap. He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw locked, every muscle screaming that he’s holding himself together by force.

Quinn sits in the back seat, forehead near the window, eyes on the blur of buildings and streetlights outside. Her reflection stares back at her, the glass catching every blink.

I sit in the passenger seat, the words pressing against my teeth.

I could tell her. I could spill everything and beg her to stay.

But I won’t. I know where that road ends.

I’ve been down that path before, and the loss carved me out from the inside.

There’s no way I would survive if something happened to her.

So I let the silence win.

The clawing pain builds until it hurts more than I thought possible.

It’s easier to watch her go knowing she’ll still be somewhere in the world. But fuck, it’s still tearing me apart.

Nate turns off the highway, sliding into the lane for the airport. When he finds a spot and kills the engine, none of us move. For a second, it’s as if staying still might stop the clock.

The door slams harder than I mean when I get out. I circle to the trunk, pop it open, and grab the handle of her new suitcase. The weight bites into my hand, not from what’s packed inside but from what the bag represents—her leaving.

I don’t hand the suitcase to her. I start walking toward the terminal, wheels dragging behind me. Quinn follows, with Nate beside her.

Inside the terminal, the air changes. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, making everything feel too bright. The suitcase wheels thump over the tiles, each uneven seam in the floor sending a little shudder through the handle.

Quinn’s close enough now that I keep stealing glances, memorising what I can before she’s gone. She has her head down lost in her own thoughts. Her hair is tucked behind one ear, her mouth fixed in a way that tells me she’s swallowing words she won’t let herself speak.

The crowd doesn’t slow for us, but it parts.

People glance up, eyes flicking between Nate and me, phones sliding into hands.

I don’t need the whispers to understand what they’re saying.

Normally, I’d smirk, maybe even play along, tossing out flirty lines.

But today, I keep my head down. The attention sits wrong.

This isn’t a moment I want the world to see.

We stand off to the side while Quinn checks her suitcase in.

The conveyor swallows the bag whole, and for a second I hate how easily it disappears, like the universe is reminding me how simple losing something can be when you’re not ready to let go.

When she turns toward us, her steps are slower than they should be.

Her shoulders are too stiff, her eyes fixed on the floor as though looking up might split her open.

Every line in her body screams restraint, that desperate grip on control you only get when you know you’re a second away from breaking.

She stops in front of us and finally lifts her head.

Fuck.

Tears are sliding down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them away. She lets them fall, thin silver trails catching the harsh airport light, proof she’s bleeding from the inside out.

It hits me hard enough to steal the air from my lungs. Because I have seen her this way before.

The day she turned up at Nate’s door, her face pale, hands trembling, eyes already emptied of light. Her voice was small when she told us Bianca was gone. And in those seconds, I swear I felt the ground split open beneath my feet, swallowing whatever part of me still believed we were untouchable.

Now the feeling is back.

That same hollow punch to the gut that leaves you reeling, waiting for the world to tilt back into place, knowing it never will.

She steps in close and hugs Nate first, her arms clinging to him for half a breath before she lets go.

After that she’s in my arms, smelling faintly of my shampoo I washed her hair with this morning. My fingers press into her back, memorizing the shape of her before she slips through my hands.

“Goodbye,” she says, quietly. “Take care of each other.”

And then she’s gone.

Moving through the crowd, away from us.

My chest is carved out, scraped raw.

The ache doesn’t fade, only waits for the next hit.

And fuck me, that’s exactly why I can’t let myself love her the way I already fucking do.