Some news

We lie in the back of the Impala now.

Naked. Tucked beneath the tarp I used to unveil Baby to my baby. The old fabric smells like sun-warmed vinyl and motor oil — now layered with sweat, skin, and the lingering hum of what just happened between us.

Emily’s curled on top of me, head tucked under my chin, our legs tangled, our fingers tracing idle, shapeless paths over each other’s bodies. I’m floating. Warm. Weightless. Heaven pressed into the cracked leather beneath me.

But I feel it.

The faint hitch in her breath. The way her fingertips pause mid-stroke along my chest. Her body soft, but trembling. The quiet inhale she thinks I won’t notice.

She’s crying.

“Talk to me, babe,” I whisper.

She tries to pull it together, sniffles soft, wiping her cheek against my skin. But I know her. I know her.

The longing hit me when she walked through the door without luggage. No suitcase. No weekender. Just her, that crooked smile, and the weight of something heavy shoved behind her eyes.

I was too wrapped up in her coming home. Too lost in making tonight about us to connect the dots.

Her voice is soft. Cracked.

“I have to go back to Miami.”

I nod, eyes drifting to the dark ceiling of the garage. I take it in. Let it land. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But I’d never — never — ask her to risk her career for me. Just like she’d never ask the same of mine.

She lifts her head enough to look at me, her lashes wet, the raw, anxious honesty spilling out.

“It’s this stupid licensing deal my firm’s been wrangling for weeks. It was supposed to close — clean, done — but some second-party filed an opposition last minute. Claimed they had prior intellectual property rights on the design patent.” She shakes her head, frustrated. “Now everything’s a mess. It’s stuck in negotiations and probable litigation, and they need me on-site.”

The words spill out, tired, technical. Legal jargon wrapped around exhaustion.

“And I don’t know how long I’ll be there.”

I slide my hand up her spine, fingers threading into her hair, grounding her. Her eyes search mine, ****, guilty.

“I’m gonna miss the con.” Her voice cracks again. The tears come harder now, quiet but unrelenting. “I’m so goddamn sorry, Joe.”

Her body shudders as the apologies keep tumbling out. Sorry after sorry after sorry, like if she stacks enough of them, it’ll fix the ache behind both our ribs.

I hush her gently, my thumb brushing along her jaw, wiping a tear with my knuckle.

“Hey,” I say, my voice steady. “Hey. You don’t owe me an apology for being incredible at what you do.” I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering. “Your career’s important to you.” I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, voice low, solid. “That means it’s important to me.”

She sniffles again, a watery laugh breaking through.

“You’re way too good at this supportive boyfriend act,” she teases, but her voice is thick with love. Her fingers curl into my chest. She knows it’s not an act. Never has been.

I tilt her chin, forcing her to see the truth sitting plain on my face.

“You’re always with me,” I tell her softly, tapping my chest over my heart. “Every click of my camera. Every stroke of my pencil. You’re there. You’re my muse.”

She smiles, but there’s a fracture at the edges — the frown still ghosting her mouth.

“I love you,” I whisper, brushing a kiss to her lips, light but steady.

And right when I need it most — she says the only words that ever really stitch me back together.

“I know.”

Our kiss is quiet this time. Soft. No heat, no desperation. Just belonging. Just us.

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LATER

The shower steams around us, fogging the glass, the tiles, the space between heartbeats. It’s not sexual. It’s not even about getting clean, not really.

It’s about this — my arms around her under the stream, her head on my shoulder, our bodies pressed together as the water washes away the sweat, the tension, the sadness too stubborn to say out loud.

We don’t talk. We don’t need to.

She pulls one of her outfits from the drawer in my closet — one of her drawers — and slips into it slow, her damp hair curling around her face and neck. I take her suit, the one from earlier, neatly draped over a hanger.

“I’ll take it to the cleaners tomorrow,” I say.

But we both know I won’t.

It smells like her.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Outside

The Uber’s already turning onto the block. My hoodie swallows her frame. She stands close, hands sliding under my jacket, face hidden against my chest like maybe this isn’t happening.

I hold her tight, jaw pressed to her temple, memorizing the shape of her one last time for tonight.

When the car stops, I help her in, brushing her damp hair behind her ear. Another tear threatens. I catch it with my thumb.

She kisses me — fast, fierce — and then she’s gone. The door clicks shut.

I stand there, arms crossed, watching the car pull away. The taillights glow red. They disappear around the corner like a slow, quiet heartbreak.

Before the ache fully lands, my phone buzzes.

Emily: Miss you already.

I type back without hesitation.

Me: Miss you more.

The message sends. I breathe deep.

This next three days are gonna suck.