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Soft.

Patient.

A brush of lips that asks for nothing in return.

“I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs. “Good night, Oscar.”

Before I can answer, he hops down from the fence and walks away.

I open my mouth to call after him, but though he can’t hear me, he lifts a hand without looking back. And then he’s gone, disappearing between the apple trees instead of his house.

He’s not going to bed.

Not yet, anyway. But I need to before the heat and stress of the day become something I need to manage for the rest of the night.

My heart hurts as I rotate and trudge back into town. A short walk, but it feels long, every step heavier than the last, every emotion twisted and blurred, fear and yearning tangled with a terrible certainty that something precious has slipped through my fingers as easily as the ocean did earlier.

That is absurd. You will see him tomorrow, and the day after, and any day you’re lucky enough that he wants to see you too.

But reason is hard to grasp by the time I reach my front door and every instinct I possess is screaming at me to turn around.

I go inside my house and get ready for bed. I haven’t washed the sheets since Poet fucked me and my pillow smells of him.

Of us.

I close my eyes, fatigue dragging my bones. But my mind races, and my pulse skips and jumps as fast as the dry wind lashing my windows. Every time I drift, I see Poet sitting on the fence. His long tanned limbs and golden hair. His soft smile, even though his blue eyes were grave.

I’d never hurt your son.

He’d never hurt me either. And I miss him already. Alone in bed, I begin to feel like half a person, half a soul, and only exhaustion and responsibility stop me throwing back the sheets and retracing my steps up the hill.

I force myself to sleep.

Cold.

Dreamless.

I have no idea which way is up when obnoxious noise rouses me sometime later.

Is it morning?

No.

It’s still dark as I kick for the surface, snarled in the sheets, heart already thumping too hard.

My room feels wrong. My bed.

I don’t know why.

Then I do.

Low.

The familiar hollow ache has settled behind my eyes and in my belly. I’m clumsy as I fumble for the juice on the bedside table, knocking my phone to the floor.

It keeps ringing, revealing itself as the source of the noise that woke me up. I grab it on the third attempt, wedging it between my shoulder and ear as I twist the cap off the bottle.

“Alio…hello?”