* * *
We makelove twice more on the plush carpet in front of the fireplace — fast, furious, fully aware we are rapidly running out of time. I think we both know this is our last chance to be together; an unexpected parting gift we must commit to memory. I burn the details of our stolen moment into my mind like a brand, savoring every infinitesimal facet.
The weight of him between my hips.
The scratch of his stubble on my cheek.
The brush of his lips on my neck.
The callus of his fingertips on my skin.
For one hour, we put aside all the things that make being together impossible. Our names, our roles, our pasts, our futures. Carter and Emilia cease to exist, as does the world outside this library. It’s as though we’ve stepped into some alternate dimension. A daydream.
Unfortunately, even the sweetest dreams do not last long. We both know…
It’s time to wake up, now.
When the fire begins to die in the hearth, I stare at Carter in the low light of the glowing embers as my fingers trail absent paths across his bare chest. He gazes back at me, the pain of our impending goodbye already plain to see in his eyes.
“Don’t say it,” I whisper. “Please.”
“All right. I won’t.”
But I hear it anyway — in the hitch of his breath, in the catch in his voice, in the throb of his pulse.
Determined not to cry, I reach out and trace the profile of his face. Just once — from his hairline, down the proud incline of his nose, over his lips, across his chin, along his jawline.
He is my favorite work of art.
A masterpiece.
I could stare at him for the rest of my life, if I were given the luxury.
When I’m done, I force myself to pull back. Numbly, I climb to my feet, collect my discarded clothes, and pull them on. Carter doesn’t move from his spot on the carpet, but I feel the weight of his eyes on me, drinking in my every move as I prepare to walk out of his life again.
For one last time.
We are always leaving one another.
Always bidding each other goodbye.
Always ripping out our own hearts for just one more touch, one more kiss, one more moment.
I manage to keep the tears at bay the entire time I’m dressing. Even when I take my last look at him; I don’t want his last memory of me to be tearstained and sobbing.
Only when I turn my back to him and begin to walk away do my eyes begin to sting.
“Emilia.”
At the sound of my name, I stop walking but do not allow myself to look back.
“I love you.”
His words are a lance to the heart, spearing through me. I grab the shelf beside me for support, feeling suddenly weak. And I find, in the face of his confession, I am not strong enough after all; the tears leak out, spilling down my cheeks as I repeat the words back to him.
“I love you, too.”
Pain cuts through me like a knife. I run blindly for the door, though I know he isn’t chasing me. Not this time.