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I yank open the guest room door and grab the backpack I still haven't fully unpacked because apparently some detached part of me already knew this arrangement wasn't going to last.

Levi follows me to the doorway and leans against the frame while I start shoving clothes into the bag with no real plan beyond not arriving in France dressed like a man who lost a fight with his own nervous system.

I throw in two shirts, a pair of pants, toiletries I don't remember using, my passport from the desk drawer, and the extra charger tangled around itself like it's personally offended.

Levi watches all of it with the long-suffering expression of a man who knows better than to tell me not to do the one thing keeping me upright.

"So," he says carefully, "you're just getting on a plane."

"Yes."

"And what's the plan when you get there?"

I zip the backpack hard enough that the sound cracks through the room.

"I'll tell you when I have one."

"That is not a plan."

"It's more of one than I had ten minutes ago."

He nods once, accepting that for what it is.

I grab the briefcase from the kitchen island on the way out. The weight of it shifts in my hand, and for one second I think about the envelope still tucked inside.

Aria Kauffman.

Cannes.

There is a place for you here when you're ready.

I know I’m the asshole for breaking things off and then chasing her out to France where she’s probably trying to build a new life for herself, but I don’t know what else to do. I at least need to see that she’s happy there and that I need to let her go.

I need to see her happy with Gabriel because I can believe it. Then I’ll accept my fate. Living a life without the woman I love.

Levi opens the front door before I reach it, then I glance over at him.

"What if she doesn't come back?"

The question slips out before I can stop it. Levi's face changes.

Not pity. Never that. Just recognition. Like he knows exactly how close I am to coming apart and is choosing not to name it out loud.

"Then it's a good thing you're going to her," he says.

I nod once, because if I say anything more, I may actually lose whatever hold I still have on myself.

I get in the back seat, shut the door, and drop my head back against the leather.

Breathe in. Hold. And then back out again.

Aria left for Cannes three days ago, without signing the papers, and without a plan to come back. That last one sits heavier than the rest.

Because if Aria left Seattle and never intended to return, then this isn't about paperwork anymore. It's about me figuring out too late that I should have been fighting for her instead of setting her free.

The pilot is waiting by the time I reach the airport.

I see Christian drive up, he hands me the divorce papers before I walk up the stairs.