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The entire hammock swings as I maneuver to make room, draping my blanket over us as his body nestles against mine. Rolled to the center of the cramped space, we face each other. He stretches an arm out where I rest the nape of my neck, guiding my head to sink into his shoulder nook. It’s a place I’ve yet to experience, and another I’ll now miss. My fingers trail lazily over his stomach, only a thin T-shirt covering the taut planes of his abdomen that tense under my touch.
“Can’t believe I’m leaving,” I whisper, wishing it wasn’t true.
“Me either.”
Neither of us say more, content just holding each other beneath the palm trees. The sun is low in the distance, a tortuous force reminding me that when it goes away, so does he.


He reaches down to the earth with his other hand and pushes off, sending us swinging. Our bodies never need to move; the motion alone does all the work. Even if a camera spotted us, it’d never know how connected we truly are.



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