Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

They’d had three months. Three months of Tuesday evenings and Sunday mornings and that one perfect rain-soaked Wednesday in Glasgow, and now his gate was boarding and she was standing in the departure lounge with mascara she’d promised herself she wouldn’t ruin and a feeling in her chest like something being pulled apart at the seam.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You have the face.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“Rosie.” He pulled her in and her forehead went straight to his shoulder the way it had learned to do in three months, the way bodies learned things faster than minds did. His hand came up to her hair. She felt the rumble of his voice in his chest. “I’m coming back in six weeks.”

“I know.”

“And then I’ll be back for good in the spring.”

“I know.”

She knew. She knew all of this. She’d agreed to all of this with clear eyes and a sensible head and absolutely none of that was protecting her from standing in a public airport falling apart in increments.

He tilted her head up.

She let him.

He kissed her like he was memorising her — slow, thorough, completely unconcerned about the gate or the people or the woman with the rolling suitcase who said *aw* as she walked past. When he pulled back she saw the same thing in his face that was in hers.

Neither of them was handling this well.

“Go,” she said.

“I know.”

“Go before I say something embarrassing.”

He laughed softly. His thumbs moved across her cheekbones. “Say it.”

“Ryan.”

“Say it, Rosie.”

She looked at him — the full length of him, the particular way he stood, the thing he did with his hands when he was nervous which he was doing now — and she thought: six weeks is nothing. Spring is nothing. A whole lifetime is nothing if you’re counting it against this.

“I love you,” she said. Practically. Factually. Like she was reporting the weather.

He exhaled like she’d taken a weight off him.

“I know,” he said. “I love you too. I’ve been waiting for you to say it first because you’re better with words than I am.”

“That’s the least romantic thing you’ve ever said.”

“I love you,” he said again, like he was testing the shape of it. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Each one slightly different. Each one landing in a different place.

“Go,” she said, and her voice was completely steady now, which surprised her.

He picked up his bag. He kissed her once more — quick, fierce, the punctuation at the end of a very long sentence.

“Six weeks,” he said.

“Six weeks,” she agreed.

He walked through the gate.

She stood there until the doors closed, and then she sat down on the nearest seat and held her own hand for a moment, which felt ridiculous and necessary in equal measure.

Her phone buzzed.

‘Landed: March 14. I’m booking the restaurant before I even get on the plane. Wear the green dress.‘

She laughed, alone in the departure lounge, and thought: spring is nothing. Six weeks is nothing.

She went home and counted the days.

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So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.