And then it’s just us. Standing too close. Not close enough.
“So,” I say.
“So.”
Quality conversation. Really nailing this goodbye thing.
“You left early,” he says quietly.
“I had to pack.”
“Right. Pack.”
He’s doing a thing with his jaw. Some tense thing that means he’s thinking too hard.
“Dean—”
“Have a good flight.”
Wait. What?
“That’s… that’s it?”
Something flickers across his face. “What else is there?”
Stay. Ask me to stay. Tell me last night meant something. Tell me this week meant something. Tell me I’m not the only one who’s drowning here.
“Nothing,” I say instead. “Just. You know. Thanks for letting me use your guest house.”
“It’s what we agreed to.”
Right. Our business arrangement. How silly of me to think—
“Take care of George,” I blurt out.
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “George isn’t my responsibility.”
“Someone should probably tell George that.”
“I’ll add it to my list.”
We stare at each other. His eyes are filled with something… but I can’t tell what. The room’s too loud. Too bright. Too full of people who aren’t having the world’s most awkward goodbye.
“I should—” I gesture vaguely toward the exit, the words catching in my throat like broken glass.
“Yeah.” His voice is flat, resigned. Like we’re discussing the weather instead of whatever this thing between us was.
But then he reaches out, his fingers barely grazing my wrist. The touch is so light I might have imagined it, except for the way my skin burns where he’s made contact.
“Poppy.”
I freeze. My name on his lips shouldn’t sound like a prayer and a goodbye all at once, but it does.
“Be careful,” he says.
The words hit me like cold water. Be careful? That’s what we’re going with? Not ‘I’ll miss you’ or ‘this has been incredible’ or ‘please don’t go.’ Be freaking careful? Odd choice, but okay.
“Always am,” I lie, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.
