Connor
It had been three amazing days.
Three days of stew and bad jokes and Edward in my jumpers. Three days of waking up and seeing him across the kitchen table, hair messy, drinking tea like he belonged here.
And now it was Wednesday. And on Thursday morning, he was flying out.
He said it was stupid to spend the night alone in London when he could just fly out super early in the morning for rugby practice. Which was fair. Which made sense. Which did not make it hurt any less.
We were lying on a picnic blanket in the back field. Red and white checkered. A wicker basket with apples beside us. Big oak tree above us, leaves filtering the sun into gold patches on his face.
My head was resting on Edward's lap. I told myself it was casual. I told myself I wasn't being clingy.
We were both sober as horses because we both had practice tomorrow. Him in the morning. Me in the afternoon. No wine. No beer. Just water and apples and the sound of birds.
