Page 176 of The Love Operation

I squeeze his hands. “A team,” I say.

“Exactly.”

“I have something for you.” I hand him the small gift bag marked Scattered Words Jewelry in black stamped lettering.

“You got me jewelry?” he teases, eyes warm.

“Just open it.”

He pulls out the tissue paper, lifts the heavy silver timepiece, and turns it over in his palm. His thumb runs across the clear dome, tracing the suspended words that are surrounded by wisps of black as if they’re playing in light and shadow.

Tragic (adj.) ˈtra-jik: me without you.

He stares at it, silent.

“The artist makes custom jewelry from old dictionaries. I asked her to help me create a piece for you. I hope you don’t already have one.”

He looks up, and his eyes are glassy. This is his four-leaf-clover moment, so I think I know what he’s feeling. That stretch inside your chest when someone pays attention, when they see you, when they go out of their way . . . for you. It’s magic. It feeds all the parts inside that need sustaining.

“I love it,” he says finally. “Seriously. It’s perfect.”

We don’t speak of the timepiece’s symbolism. We don’t need to. Instead, we eat until the sun bleeds orange across the yard, and the warmth of the day shifts into the cooler kiss of twilight.

The nerves in my stomach almost keep me from asking: “You wanna dance?”

I’m not trying to recreate the past, but there’s a part of me that wants to operate on it a little: Keep what mattered, remove what didn’t, and stitch together the outcome I want most. And what I want . . . is to be back in his arms.

“There’s no music,” he says, a grin lifting his cheeks.

“When has that ever stopped us?”

He stands, pulls me to my feet, and slips an arm around my waist. Then he hums—quiet and off-key—as I melt against him. Cheek to cheek, we sway in a slow circle.

“I love you,” he whispers, lips brushing my temple.

“I love you too.”

I close my eyes. I feel every point of contact—his hand on my waist, my fingers in his, the bristle of his facial hair, the promise in the air between us.

I inhale, just as the garden does around us, breathing in the damp, earthy promise of rain. The breeze turns into a sweeping wind strong enough to blow clouds in and partially darken the yard.

And then, from the crepe myrtle above, red blossoms begin to fall—carried by the wind, tumbling like confetti. A kiss from the universe.

We look up, laughing. And just when this feels like a bottled moment finally freed, the sky opens. It’s a soft patter at first, then steadier, a summer rain as sudden as a bend in the road.

We don’t run. We stay.

Unplanned. Uncontrolled.

Benedict kisses me as the petals swirl, as thunder rumbles, and droplets sizzle against my skin. We are two people captured in a resin dome and hung around the neck of the earth.

Then we’re laughing—giddy, breathless—the kind of bone rattling that’s been waiting years to be let out. It mixes with the thunder.

And then a shock of lightning shifts the energy. Laughter becomes hunger.

I crush my lips to his.

He doesn’t resist—until thunder crashes again, and he breaks the kiss just enough to whisper, “Come inside with me.”