“Okay,” I said, setting my mug aside. “Then I’ll save you the good room.”
“You mean the couch.”
“It has character.”
She laughed, a sound that still made my chest go loose. “Right. Character that smells like beer and regret.”
“Adds to the charm.” I grinned wider. “I’d never make you sleep on my couch.”
She shook her head, still smiling, and brushed her fingers down my chest, tracing the edge of the tattoo on my arm like she couldn’t help herself. “You’re off your rocker.”
“Still sounds like you enjoy my company,” I murmured, and she laughed.
We stood there in the half-light, the city stretching awake around us—horns, brakes, the distant wail of another siren. Seattle moved fast even when it was still sleepy. She fit here. I could see it in the way she glanced at the skyline out the window, the way she breathed easier with the noise. Reckless River would always feel too quiet for her.
I wanted to tell her I didn’t need her to stay forever. Justtry.Just give it the same effort we’d both been too scared to before. But I didn’t want to weigh down a morning that still tasted like hope.
Instead, I said, “You’re staring at me.”
She smiled. “Because you look so serious.”
“Serious about you.”
“Dangerous thing to say before caffeine.”
“Too late,” I said. “I’m caffeinated and reckless.”
“Then at least eat before you go.”
She disappeared into the kitchen again, bare legs and my shirt disappearing with her. The sound of the fridge opening, therattle of pans. She was humming softly under her breath. It was some old pop song that didn’t fit her at all and yet somehow did.
When I walked in, she was standing over the stove, flipping eggs like she was auditioning for a diner commercial. I leaned against the counter, watching her with a stupid grin.
“What?” she said, not looking up.
“Just trying to burn this into memory,” I said. “In case the weekend feels too far away.”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing playfully. “You really are a sentimental sap, aren’t you?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “I’ve got a reputation.”
Her lips curved into a soft, knowing smile, but she didn’t say anything. We ate at the counter, sharing toast, trading small talk about the weather, traffic, and Lydia’s inevitable baby shower. She laughed at all the right spots, but every so often, her eyes drifted somewhere else.
I noticed it again—that faraway flicker. Like she was already thinking about the rest of her day, her week, herlifehere. I told myself I was being paranoid, but it gnawed anyway.
When it was finally time to go, she walked me to the door, barefoot and sleepy-eyed. I bent down and kissed her slowly, the kind of kiss that tried to make up for the time we hadn’t lost yet.
“Drive safe,” she said softly.
“Always.”
“And text when you get there. I mean it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled and tugged at the collar of my jacket. “Don’t call me ma’am. Makes me sound like I run an HOA.”
“You don’t like rules,” I teased, and she laughed, the sound chasing away the lump in my throat. “Funny for a teacher.”
