“Maybe we can compromise and agree that it’s a not-wing wing. A separate area, away from the rest of the house. Welcome to my childhood bedroom.”

I look around the space we’ve entered. The room is large. A king bed with a deep mahogany headboard sits in the middle under a tall window covered in curtains. There’s a desk in the corner with notebooks and papers scattered over it, as well as an old computer monitor collecting dust. Posters line the cream-colored walls, an array of art from pictures of Derek Jeter to a Blink-182 concert image.

“I’m a little disappointed. I was expecting a swimming pool in the middle of the room, or a jacuzzi. Oh, or peacocks! This isn’t nearly as outlandish as what I was picturing.”

“You’re cute when you’re a smart-ass,” Henry says. “We keep the peacocks in the gardens, and the swimming pool is in my sister’s section of the house.”

“A travesty.”

“Talk to me, Emma. How are you feeling so far?”

“Not bad,” I answer honestly. “To be fair, one person is a lot easier to handle than a dozen people. Or two dozen people.”

“Or a hundred.”

“Right.”

“Does Mexican sound okay for dinner? I called Mom yesterday and suggested it. I know you love tacos.”

Words of affirmation and acts of service have always been my love languages, and my heart bursts at his recollection of my favorite food. It’s a small, inconsequential fact we only discussed once or twice. Still, he remembered, and accommodated me and the things I like.

“It sounds perfect.”

“Cool. Want to set your suitcase up over there?”

He gestures to the far side of the bed, where a long ottoman sits in front of a lounge chair. I carry my bag over and lift it onto the piece, hoping I don’t get any scuff marks on the wrinkle-free upholstery.

My shoulders are stiff, grimacing at the sight of the worn material against such nice, decorative furniture. The dirty wheels are a stark contrast against the white fabric that’s probably never used for comfort, used primarily to bring the room together in interior design harmony.

“Hey.” Henry’s voice is soothing as it drifts across the room, like a cool breeze on a warm summer day, offering a reprieve from unrelenting sun. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I answer, fumbling with my suitcase zipper.

He ambles over, moving to stand next to me. I tilt my chin up, meeting his troubled stare. Worry is etched on his face, prevalent in the frown he’s wearing and the creases in the corner of his eyes. He looks tired. Exhausted. Yet still so strikingly handsome.