"You got quiet," he says, his voice soft in the growing darkness.
"Just thinking." I force a smile. "The fish was really good. Thank you."
He studies my face for a moment, but doesn't push. Instead, he stands and starts clearing the plates. "Stay tonight."
I can list at least five reasons why it's a bad idea. What staying means or doesn't mean. Normally, I would err on the side of caution, but not today.
"Yes."
Logan smiles, slow and warm. "I was hoping you'd say that."
5
LOGAN
Hannah checks out of her rental on day three and moves her suitcase to my place without either of us making it official.
By day four, she knows the names of Maria's kids and asks how Boris's parents are doing in Montenegro. She steals my coffee every morning on the porch, curls her feet under her when cozying in the chair, and watches the ocean. When the afternoon crowd hitsShore Thing, she's there—chatting with Delilah about her grandson's baseball team or helping Eli when the bar gets slammed.
He gave her a crash course on bartending, which she absolutely enjoyed. She even showed me her "cheat sheet" of cocktail recipes.
When people say, "Time flies when you're having fun," I guess this is what they mean.
Hannah leaves in a day, and I've stopped counting because counting makes it real, the ball of dread just getting bigger in my stomach.
She fits here like she was always meant to. Like the island was waiting for her.
But she's leaving, and there's nothing I can do about it. Vacations end.
On our last night,I take her to Santini's—the Italian place on the north side where tourists don't usually venture. Candlelight, white tablecloths, and the restaurant where you go for more important celebrations.
We sit outside on the terrace overlooking the water. Hannah's wearing a blue dress that makes her eyes look like the ocean in daylight, and I can't stop looking at her hands as she talks, the way she gestures with her fork.
"Maria's going to miss you," I say over the pasta course.
"I'm going to miss her. And Boris. And Eli's terrible jokes."
"Just theirs?"
She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Okay, yours aren't too bad, either."
The weight of tomorrow sits between us like a third person at the table. Neither of us says it directly—that this is the last meal, the last conversation, the last time we'll sit across from each other like this. But it's there in every pause, every look that lasts a beat too long.
After dinner, they clear the tables and turn up the music. She doesn't protest when I pull her onto the small dance floor thistime, just lets me glide her in close, her head on my shoulder, her body a perfect fit against mine.
"You're quiet tonight," she says against my neck.
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how much I'm going to miss this."
Her arms tighten around me, and we don't talk after that. Just sway to the music while I memorize the way she feels, the way she smells, the soft sound of her breathing against my ear.
I'm going to need these memories to last me my whole life.
When the song ends, we don't break apart immediately. We stand there, holding each other, her heart beating against my chest.
