She traces the fabric with slow, absent strokes and lifts it to her nose, closing her eyes for half a second as she breathes it in. “I sprayed it with your cologne before I left. It still smells like you.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “I like the idea of you pulling it on and still smelling me.”

Her breath catches slightly, her fingers tightening around the hoodie. “I don’t think I can bring myself to wash it.”

A silence falls between us, not heavy, but full.

I shift, forcing a smile, doing my best to stay steady for her. Because that’s what she needs. But underneath, the worry gnaws at me. As much as I believe in us, some small, hollow place inside me wonders what’s going to happen to our relationship. How long before the distance starts pulling at the seams we’ve barely stitched together?

The fear creeps up before I can stop it. The fear of distance. Of loneliness sneaking back in through cracks we worked so hard to seal shut.

And then, like she can hear the thought scraping through my chest, she looks up.

“Are we going to be okay?” she asks.

I meet her gaze without flinching. Steady. Certain.

“Of course we are.”

For the first time tonight, she smiles. Truly smiles. “We haven’t talked about when we’ll see each other again.”

“Soon, babe.”

“Soon isn’t a date, Sebring.”

“Then tell me when I can come.” All she has to do is say the word.

“I used all my vacation time for the trip to Samoa, so I can’t take off again for a while.” The disappointment in her voice hits hard.

Not seeing her every day already feels unnatural. Knowing there’s no set date for when I’ll hold her again? It’s brutal.

She lifts my sweatshirt to her nose again, breathing in like she’s trying to hold on to something slipping through her fingers. Her gaze flicks between the screen and some far-off place in her mind. “I hate this part. I wish we had a date set. Something to count down to.”

So do I. The uncertainty of when I’ll see her again is the worst part, gnawing at the edges of my calm. “I’ll look at my work calendar, and we’ll plan something. We’ll figure it out.”

Her face crumples for half a second—barely there, but enough to wreck me. Like my words found the rawest, softest part of her and pressed right against it.

“Okay,” she says, her voice catching on the word. She nods, blinking fast like she’s trying to stay strong for both of us.

Her lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly. I see it—the way my words settle inside her. The way they stitch something back together. The way they make her feel this––feel me––even from thousands of miles away.

“You and me,” she says.