Chapter 26 #2
He nods, eyes steady. “Then I’ll jump in with you and keep a hand on you the whole time.”
My throat tightens. “That’s not how swimming works.”
“It is now,” he says. “New technique. Approved by me.”
I huff and hide my face against his shoulder for a second. When I lift it again, he’s still there, still grounded, still Caden.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Then we jump.”
He nods once, decisive. “We jump.”
I peel myself away before I lose the thread entirely and snag a duffel from the closet.
I toss in jeans, underwear, socks, two T-shirts, a hoodie, and toiletries.
The firefighter goes last, tucked in a side pocket.
I tell myself it’s temporary. That I’ll set him on Caden’s dresser in San Francisco and let him look out a window we haven’t seen yet.
Behind me, the bed rustles. “I should put my leg on,” he says, practical as breath.
“Want help?”
He looks over like he’s cataloging the question. “Yeah,” he says finally, quietly. “Thanks.”
We move through it together—familiar now after last night’s careful unlearning and relearning—our rhythm already smoother.
He tells me where to steady and where to wait, when to hold and when not to.
The routine is different from undressing; this is the day version, the going-out-into-the-world version.
It feels just as intimate. Maybe more so.
When everything’s aligned and secure, he tests his weight, looks up, and gives me a small nod that lands like a warm hand between my shoulder blades.
“Good?” I ask.
“Good,” he echoes. “Really good.”
He stretches, grimaces at his phone’s battery percentage, and slips it off the cord. “I’ll charge it more in the car.”
“I’m driving,” I say, and the words hang there for a split second, both of us remembering the last time the world tilted behind a steering wheel. I wait for the flinch, despite his quiet acceptance yesterday. He gives me a soft, sure nod instead.
“Okay,” he says. “You’re driving.”
The knot in my chest loosens another degree. We’re not pretending the past didn’t happen. We’re choosing to walk past it—together.
“Text me the itinerary,” I add, grabbing my own dead phone and grimacing.
He lifts his. “I’ll AirDrop it when we have more than 5 percent life support.”
“Romance in the twenty-first century,” I say.
“Don’t knock it,” he murmurs, tugging me by the belt loop back onto the bed. “It also allows for this—two more minutes of me kissing you before we ruin everything with socks and airports.”
“Socks can be romantic,” I protest weakly, already climbing back over him.
His mouth finds mine, slow at first, then deeper until the decision we’ve just made hums between our teeth.
It isn’t last night’s urgency. It’s something steadier, a promise sealed not with grand speeches but with the press of lips and the easy slide of hands over familiar geography.
He tastes like mint and the kind of hope that makes my ribs ache in a way that doesn’t hurt.
When we break away, he rests his forehead against mine. “Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For choosing this. Choosing me.” A beat. “Again.”
I swallow. “Always.”
His smile is small and devastating. He kisses me once more and then sits up like a man remembering he has a plane to catch and a life to disrupt with joy.
“Okay. Logistics. You grab your wallet and ID. I’ll pull up the app and see if there’s a seat next to me.
Worst case, we’re a row apart and I annoy you from across the aisle. ”
“You mean like you did through all of sophomore English when our classes had to join because of Mrs. Perry’s illness?” I ask, standing to dig in my dresser for a clean tee.
“That was educational enrichment,” he says.
“You put googly eyes on my copy of Gatsby.”
He points at me. “And you never forgot the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg again.”
I can’t help it. I grin. It’s stupid and wide, because somehow we’re talking about googly eyes and also maybe moving our lives around each other again, and the whiplash isn’t as scary when he’s making me laugh.
I grab my wallet and ID from the tray on my dresser and slide them into my pocket.
He checks the app while his phone gasps along on its last drips of battery.
“Two seats left in economy,” he says. “I can…. Oh. I can upgrade one of us to the bulkhead.” He glances at me, reading my face for a group decision.
“Or we stay together and both fold up like paper cranes.”
“Together,” I say instantly. “We can unfold at the other end.”
He makes a pleased sound and taps. “Done.” He looks up. “You bringing the LEGO?”
I pat the duffel, saying, “Obviously,” which earns me a sweet smile.
I pause with my hand still on my bag. “And—I just remembered, I promised Amelia I’d spend more time with Connor this summer. He’s eleven now, and I don’t want him thinking I disappeared on him.”
Caden’s expression softens immediately. “Then we’ll work it out,” he says. “We can even fly him out to San Francisco for a week. Give Amelia a break, give Connor some quality time. Show him the Bay, take him to a Warriors game.”
The thought lands in my chest like a light I didn’t know I’d been holding my breath for. Not just us, but space for the people I love. Space for my family too.
“Thank you,” I say as tuck my phone charger into the bag, zip it shut, and just…
stop. The room is still the same. Bed unmade, curtains stirring in the vent’s sigh, my life stacked in neat piles on the bookshelf.
And yet the air feels different—charged yet elastic, like it’s stretching to accommodate a new shape.
“Hey,” he says softly, catching my pause. “We don’t have to solve the next ten steps. Just this one. You and me. Airport. Plane. A few days. That’s it.”
“That’s it,” I echo, and the words settle, surprisingly light.
He takes my hand again, our fingers fitting like they’ve regained their muscle memory. He lifts our joined hands and kisses the back of mine, still watching my face like he’s waiting for panic to return. It doesn’t. Or if it does, it politely sits farther away, letting joy take the front seat.
“Do you need to tell anyone you’re leaving?” he asks.
“Nope.” I shake my head. “I’m not expecting my parents for a visit.” I do need to think about what I’m going to about spending time with my nephew, though. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
He stands and hooks a finger into my waistband to reel me in for one last kiss in this room before everything is about to tilt again. When he lets me go, his smile is pure trouble. “Just one stop at the B&B to pick up my bag. That’ll set the tongues wagging, no doubt.”
“Get your phone,” I tell him, fighting a laugh. “You’re about to lose the last 2 percent of your dignity.”
“Impossible,” he says. “I lost that the second I asked you to be my prom date.”
I grab the duffel and sling it over my shoulder. He reaches for it automatically, like he’s ready to take the weight if I want him to. I keep hold. Not because I need to, but because I want to carry this part, at least. He nods once, understanding something I didn’t say.
At the doorway, I look back. The bed is a mess. The morning is bright. The space we just remade together looks ordinary again, the way miracles do once you close your eyes after witnessing them and then open them again.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No,” I say honestly. Then I squeeze his hand. “Yes. Let’s go.”