He joins me on the bench, allowing what little gap is possible. When he removes his cap, his military cut appears a tad longer than I envisioned, the rest of him no less broad or handsome in his olive-drab uniform. Could this encounter actually be happenstance?

“I hope it’s okay,” he says, “that I came looking for you.”

Almost five years apart and he can answer my questions without being asked. As comforting as it is unnerving.

“Absolutely. It’s grand to see you.” I attempt a smile, not meeting his eyes, dodging the spotlight. “You’re here to meet with intelligence, I’m guessing?”

“That’s right.”

“So…you’re stationed in London now?”

“Nah. I’m not staying.” Then: “No need for you to fret.”

“I…didn’t mean to suggest—”

“No, I–I know you didn’t.” An awkwardness, so foreign between us, wedges in. He picks at his hat resting on his knee. “Just meant I’m flying out tomorrow. First thing.”

“Tomorrow,” I say. “Going back so soon?”

He hesitates, perhaps not wanting to admit how many days he’s been in the area, putting off this visit. Likely debating whether to come. “There’s loads of work to be done. You know how it is.”

“Of course.” I’ve scarcely registered his presence, much less his departure.

“You look swell, Fenna.”

Reflexively I reply, “So do you.”

After a beat, he says more pointedly, “What I mean is, you look beautiful.”

The full workday has surely faded my makeup and loosed strands from my twist. Still, the sincerity in his tone pulls my gaze to his. What I find there, in the familiar depth of his slate-blue eyes, is something I failed to fathom just how much I’ve missed: a sense of home rooted in history, in shared memories since childhood, from the one person in the world who knows me better than anyone else ever did or could.

The feeling rings especially true in the muted evening light. As if by magic, it softens his features and our years apart disappear. All at once, we’re in my old room, his arms around me, his body curled with mine. It was a night of intimacy and discovery and passion, before he must have come home, eager to share our news, only to find my note…

The guttural sound of propellers—a typical RAF Hurricane in passing—grounds me in reality, where at last I can set things right.

“Arie,” I begin, daring to turn to him fully. I push past the emotion gathering in my throat. “About what happened…why I left—”

“Please don’t.” Firm, not a request. A moment later, his voice eases. “It was ages ago. We wanted different things. I get that now.”