Someone who might actually deserve him.
Someone who isn't me.
The tears slow gradually, exhaustion replacing active grief, leaving me hollow and wrung-out in his arms. My breathing evens, hiccupping sobs transforming into shaky inhales, the storm passing as suddenly as it arrived.
Calder's hand moves through my hair with rhythmic gentleness, fingers carding through tangles with patient attention. His other arm remains firm around my waist, anchoring me against him, communicating safety through touch rather than words.
He doesn't ask.
Doesn't demand explanations or force conversations I'm not ready for.
Just holds me while I break apart, offering silent support without judgment.
That acceptance—that unconditional presence—is what finally undoes me completely. Not the crying, not the grief, but the recognition that this man loves me enough to let me fall apart without trying to fix me, without making it about him, without any expectation except that I'll eventually be ready to put myself back together.
And he won't be here when I do.
The thought settles with leaden weight, reality asserting itself past emotional catharsis.
In two weeks—maybe less—Calder Hayes will board a plane back to Los Angeles. He'll start his new position, build his new life, and create his new future.
And I'll be here.
In Sweetwater Falls with my temporary pack and my temporary position and my temporary everything.
Learning to exist without the one person who makes me feel safe and where I rightfully belong.
But right now, in this moment, I can still pretend.
Can still curl into his chest and breathe his scent and feel his heartbeat steady against my ear.
Allow myself to believe that safety is permanent rather than fleeting, that love is enough to overcome logistics and distance and all the practical reasons this can't work.
Can still enjoy the safety his arms bring.
Potentially one last time.
The thought should make me cry harder, should trigger a fresh wave of grief and desperation.
Instead, it just makes me hold tighter—memorizing the feel of him, the scent of him, the particular way our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces designed specifically for each other.
One last time.
Make it count.
Make it enough to last through all the lonely nights ahead.
Calder's lips press against my temple—soft, reverent, carrying the weight of everything we're not saying aloud.
"I've got you, Wendy," he whispers, the words vibrating through his chest into mine. "For as long as you'll let me, I've got you."
For as long as you'll let me.
Not forever.
Not permanent.
Just as long as circumstances allow before real life intrudes.
