I’ve never been a huge talker. I’ve never had the inclination to put into words all the things that are going on in my head. Never felt the need some people have to fill silence with pointless chatter. I get the feeling that’s usually who Harlow is for people—she’s the one who carries on the conversation and manages to pull sentences from even the least talkative person around—but she never really tries that with me. She can outtalk and outwit almost anyone I know, and yet when we’re together, she’s okay with my silence. She’s okay letting me be me.

I thought I knew what we were for each other, but underneath the stress and anxiety of the last few weeks, something changed. It’s a complication I wasn’t expecting and now that it’s here, I want it. Last night was the first time we really talked about what we are, but did we actually decide anything? I want her. That’s all I really know.

Harlow mumbles something in her sleep and I shift to my side, brushing the hair from her face. When I’m this close to her it’s easy to forget the stack of bills waiting on the boat, the broken-down equipment and the start of the next season that gets closer and closer every day.

But fuck, I need to go home. I’ve been putting it off as long as I can but I’m needed there. I belong there. But how do I leave now? One smile or smart-ass comment from her and all my thoughts sort of rearrange themselves, the inappropriate, usually pornographic ones sliding to the front, while the important ones like family and responsibility are shuffled to the back.

I’ve tried to ignore it. I’ve tried to downplay the way my heart jumps in my chest when I hear her name, done my best to explain away the times I find myself thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing, worrying whether she’s all right. But I can’t anymore. I don’t want to.

Jesus, I’ve never thought this much about a woman in my life.

“Finn?”

I look down to see her blinking awake. “I’m here,” I tell her. I kiss her temple, her cheek, let my hand move down her body to rest at her hip.

“You stayed.” It’s not a question, and I feel the moment she really wakes up, realizes that I’m still here, with her. Harlow pushes herself up before she climbs on top of me. Her silhouette blocks the streetlights filtering in through the dark window and all I can make out is the shape of her body, the pink of her nipples against her skin.

“I stayed so I could fuck you again,” I tell her and she laughs.