And I couldn’t stop kissing him.
We spent hours on the couch, making out like teenagers until our lips were raw and we were on the verge of hyperventilating. I slept in his arms every night and learned he was a grump before he’d had his first cup of coffee in the morning. But most of all we talked. About life and death, TV and books, and all the other nonsense new lovers talk about.
When he took me to the airport, I plastered a fake smile on my face and hoped the tears burning behind my eyes wouldn’t spill over and reveal how fucking miserable I was at the thought of leaving him. He let me get away with it, and I was grateful.
After one last lingering kiss, I boarded the plane, hid in the bathroom, and sobbed into my hands. My chest ached with emptiness and even though we’d agreed to keep in touch, I was afraid he’d change his mind when I was gone.
Because fuck if I hadn’t fallen for him. Hard.