He forced a smile and turned toward the street—he started to walk away. He should have walked away. But he stopped. And said, “Fuck it.” “Langu—” she started, but he was already pulling her into his arms and pressing her up against the snowy car. Lips touching, tongues seeking, skin caught between fire and ice. When he pulled back, her eyes were dazed and her lips were parted and he had no idea if she even heard him when he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I’ll find you.” And then he went to buy her some time because it was all he had left to give.
