Just Jupiter released the five-track album this morning. Embry and Sage helped.

And when he wakes up, there's a message waiting for him. Please don't wait for me, Rhysand. You don't have to. You can love someone else, you know?

Rhysand wants to laugh. It's the same thing he said to Sabina, the same thought he repeated over and over in his head. Sanford can love someone else, but he won't. I can't. I won't.

Sanford doesn't take a minute. Rhys, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

Can I see you? He rushes to type his response, heart in his throat. If it's...if it's only alright with you. If you don't mind. If you're not...if you don't want to, it's fine, don't force yourself.

She sends him one line—an address.

Rhysand grabs his laptop, buys a ticket to the earliest flight—this afternoon—and packs one bag.

He messages Trey on the way to the airport. I'm coming to see her. Flying in a few hours. Wish me luck, old man.

His reply is immediate, and Rhysand smiles. About time. And you don't need it, kid. Don't make my daughter cry.

Rhysand takes a deep breath. Will try my best. Call you when I can.

It's a small city—Lake Aiken has half of South Bend's population. Sanford lives in a small part of the small city called Little Elm, near the beach.

The address she sent leads him to a small house painted white, yellow lights hanging beside the glass windows, with small steps and a porch leading up to the front door.

He pulls out his phone with one hand. I'm here.

He doesn't have to wait long. Oh. Oh, your trip was quick. I'm, um, I'm still in school, finishing up work. Go inside and wait if you want, um there's a key under the plant near the door.

Rhysand's heart almost bursts. She's a teacher? She's working in a school?

He types his reply, and his fingers shake. Okay. Get home safe.

Rhysand walks up the stairs and fits the key in the lock. Inside, the house is small, and it's bare—white, empty walls with no pictures. There's furniture around, and there's food and the smell of pastries—God, he missed that smell—but it doesn't feel like Sanford's home.

The living room is tight—it leads immediately to the tiny kitchen with a small table, two wooden chairs on opposite sides. There are only two doors in the hallway—one's for the bathroom, Rhysand presumes, and the other's her bedroom.

Rhysand is tempted to walk inside her bedroom, but he sits down on the couch, tossing his bag on the floor. No. It would be invading her space and privacy.

His foot taps the floor repeatedly, and it doesn't stop until the door opens, just about fifteen minutes later.

Sanford stumbles inside her home, and Rhysand stands up, hitting his knee on the table. "Fuck," he hisses, gritting his teeth.

When Rhysand raises his head, his heartbeat stops.

Her hair is longer, but it's still dark and curly, and it looks as soft as it was when Rhysand tucked loose strands behind her ear. Her eyes are still the same shade of ocean blue—still lovely, and innocent, and those are the eyes that made him weak to the knees. He remembers how painful it was to see them cry.

She looks thinner. She's wearing a yellow knit cardigan tucked in—in that skirt with the pockets. She looks vibrant, as always.

Beautiful, as always.

Around her neck is the sun.

She swallows the lump in her throat and closes the door. "Hi."

Rhysand balls his hands into fists behind his back. His knees buckle hearing her voice in person after so long. "Hi. You, uh, came from work?"

Sanford nods. She's stiff, standing in front of her door. "And—and you?"

"I skipped," he says.

"Oh." She inhales deeply, avoiding his eyes. Her cheeks are pink, and he wants to brush his fingers over her skin, her face. Rhysand digs his nails into his palms. "Are you—are you hungry?" she asks quietly.

"No."

"I'll get you water," she mutters, zooming past him to race to the kitchen. "It was a long flight, right?"

"Not really." Rhysand's eyes follow her every move. "If you're not—if you're not comfortable with me here, we can talk somewhere else. I'll find a hotel after that."

Sanford whirls around to face him, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth. "It's not that."

"This is your home," Rhysand says. "I understand if this is invasive. I'll wait outside—"

"This isn't," Sanford blurts out in a rush, wide eyes blinking. "This isn't—this isn't my home, I mean. It's my house, it's where I live, but it's not..." She takes a deep breath. "Don't, um, don't go. It's okay. I'm just nervous."

Rhysand stares at her. "Why are you nervous?"

She stares back at him, and Rhysand's breath catches. "You know why, Rhysand," she whispers.

His name on her lips sounds like coming home.

He sucks in a staggering breath. "I don't smoke that much anymore."

"I heard," Sanford says, and her lips—lips he kissed a million times over—curl up in a small smile. "Jenner texts me sometimes. Sage and Embry, too, and my other friends. And um, MJ and Sab visit."

Rhysand nods stiffly. He knew that already.

"That's good," she continues, leaning against the counter, water forgotten. "That's really good." Her hair falls across her face, and Rhysand has to clench his fists to keep from reaching out.

It hurts. She's here. She's here, she's in front of him, and she's so close—so, so close to touch. To kiss. To hold. And yet, Rhysand's feet stay planted on the ground.

She might've agreed to see him, but it doesn't mean she's taking him back.

Rhysand's chest aches. "You—you're a teacher?"

"Preschool," Sanford answers softly, swallowing the lump in her throat. "The people and the kids here...well, they don't know."

Rhysand nods stiffly once more. She's doing what she loves. That's good.

"Congratulations on the album," she says, smiling, and it hurts to see her smile. It hurts. "I know you did well."

"Is that all?" Rhysand asks quietly. "Is that all you have to say about the songs, sunshine?"

Sanford's eyes close. "What else do you want me to say?" she whispers.

That you love me too, Rhysand thinks. That you hear what I'm saying. That you'll take me back.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, "Are you okay? Have you—have you healed, moved on?"

She stares at him and inhales sharply. "I've forgiven myself, yes."

"And have you forgiven me?"

Sanford's fingers tighten on the counter. "I already told you," she murmurs, eyes glistening, "there's nothing to forgive you for. You chose your music. That's enough for me."

Rhysand steps forward. "And? Are you happy?"

Sanford hangs her head. "Rhys."

"Because I'm not," he says, keeping his gaze locked with hers. "I'm successful. I have money, I have a house. I have a fucking career. But I'm not happy."

Sanford's jaw tightens. Her eyes are shiny. "I told you not to wait for me."

"You left me," Rhysand says. "You—you left me."

"I had to."

"And you tell me I can love someone else? That's bullshit," he continues, stepping forward again, until he's in front of her. "I know you needed to leave. I know we had to—had to break up. I know you said we weren't—we had issues to work on, and you needed to heal on your own. I understand. I've been understanding the past fucking years you were gone. And I'm—I'm glad you're doing what you love, Sanford, I am. I'm just—my heart's breaking here," he whispers, clutching his chest. "Again. You left that letter, and—and you left me."

"It was difficult for me, too," Sanford snaps brokenly, cheeks heating with frustration. "You think I left because it was easy? Rhysand, we were suffocating each other, and I had to leave to save your career."

Rhysand stares at her. "I know. I owe you what I have now."

"No, that's not what I'm saying," Sanford mutters, squeezing her eyes shut. "No, you don't owe me anything. But I—but I did it because I loved you."

Rhysand's breath catches in his throat.

Past tense. Past—past tense.

"And this is what my life has become, Rhysand," she continues, biting her lip, gesturing around the small house. "I was lucky I could even afford this."

Rhysand clutches his chest. "And do you blame me for it?"

Sanford looks at him. "Rhys. No. I don't blame you for anything. I never blamed you for anything."

Sanford's heart is too big. Too pure. Too kind.

"I heard you made Sophia quit," she says softly. "Thank you for not pressing charges."

Too kind. The world does not deserve her. Rhysand does not deserve her. "I should've done it a long time ago," Rhysand says.

"I understand why you didn't. It was your career on the line. I don't blame you for anything."

Rhysand can hear his heart yelling. "Are you with—are you with someone else?"

She holds his gaze, and her face falls—like—like she can't believe he asked her this.

"It's fine if you are," Rhysand says, swallowing the lump in his throat. "It's—as long as you're happy."

"I'm not happy," Sanford whispers. "And no, I'm not with anyone else. How could I be?"

Rhysand sucks in a shaky breath. "Then do you regret loving me?"

Sanford's answer is quick. She says, "No."

"Then can you love me again?"

Sanford's eyes shut. "Rhysand," she whispers.

He swallows thickly. "Please love me again," he rasps, and the sound of his desperation echoes across the room, and Rhysand—Rhysand doesn't care. "Sunshine, please. I swear I'll love you right this time."

She looks at him. Softly admits, "I'm scared."

"You don't think I am, too? I'm fucking scared. I'm terrified. You left me once and you can do it again. I can make you do it again, of course I'm fucking terrified," Rhysand says through gritted teeth. "I don't—I don't want you to leave me again, sunshine, please."

"I'm sorry," Sanford sobs, hanging her head, tears staining her cheeks. "I'm sorry for leaving," she chokes out. "I'm sorry, Rhys. I'm sorry I hurt you."

"Then come back to me," Rhysand whispers, voice trembling, and his fingers shake when they reach out, brushing them across her skin, wiping her tear away, and her hand comes up to cover his own, and shivers run up his spine from her touch, and ah, it feels like coming home. "I won't—I won't lose my mind over my jealousy and selfishness and possessiveness. I won't suffocate you. I'll—I'll trust you more, I'll talk to you, I won't let work get in the way. I'll—I'll love you right this time, sunshine. I swear I'll love you right this time, please love me again."

Sanford shuts her eyes. "Rhys. Rhys, when I—when I heard the album, your songs, my—"

Whatever she's about to say, Rhysand doesn't hear it.

The doorbell rings.

Rhysand clenches his jaw. His hand drops from her face and he steps back.

"Sorry," Sanford says, turning around, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She hurriedly opens the fridge and takes out a box—a box of cheese tarts. "I'll be right back."

She opens the door. A middle-aged guy smiles at her. Sanford gives him the box, and he gives her the money, and he waves and leaves.

Sanford turns to face him. "I'm, uh—" she pauses, clearing her throat. "I don't make much from the teaching, so I bake for my neighbors, and they pay me."

Rhysand will take care of her. He'll give her everything. He'll build her a bakery if that's what she wants.

"I'll leave and come back tomorrow," Rhysand says. Sanford probably needs space from him—he comes here, invades her privacy, makes her cry again. He always makes her cry. "You need to rest, you have work in the morning."

She purses her lips. Rhysand wants to kiss her. "You haven't eaten."

Her worry almost makes him smile. No one worries for him as much as she has. "I'll eat somewhere."

"You can—" she inhales sharply. "You can stay here. You don't have to leave. You can take the bed, I'll sleep on the sofa."

"No." Rhysand draws his eyebrows together. "You think I'd let you do that?"

She almost smiles, too. "No," she answers, shaking her head. "I know you wouldn't."

Rhysand's face softens. "Sanford..."

"Sleep here on the sofa if you want," she says, grabbing the phone off the table. "You can take a shower, freshen up. I'll order food so you can eat."

Rhysand—Rhysand smiles.

There's a tiny feeling of hope stirring within him—is she doing this because she doesn't want him to leave? Or just because he came here for her, and she feels obligated to?

"The bathroom's that way," she says, pointing him to the door.

"Right." Rhysand bends down and grabs his bag. "Right, I'll be back."

He didn't expect to be staying over. He messages Sage. I'll be back tomorrow or the day after.

His friend replies immediately. I'm gonna k*** you :)

No you aren't. Cover for me.

What are you even DOING in another fucken country, man. THE ALBUM WAS A SUCCESS (as always) BUT WE HAVE WORK. LOTS OF IT!!!!

He shakes his head and types his response. I'm with the love of my life, shut up and cover for me

OH OH SHIT TELL ANDY TO COME BACK WE MISS HER!!!

Rhysand scoffs. Bye, work hard.

There's no hot water in the shower. Rhysand's chest aches. She's been showering all this time under the cold? Shivering?

He remembers showering with her back at his—their place. He remembers cleaning and rinsing her when she needed him to, he remembers being at her complete mercy when she wants his hands on her skin, and Rhysand—Rhysand will do anything Sanford asks.

She knocks on the bathroom door. There's barely a curtain separating the shower and the—well, the door. "Yeah?"

"I forgot to give you a towel," she says.

Rhysand smiles to himself.

He peeks his head out and says, "You can come in. It's your bathroom."

She opens it slowly. Shoves the towel in his face. "Yeah, but you're showering."

It's nothing you haven't seen before, Rhysand wants to say. But now is not the time for jokes like that. They both still don't know where they stand.

So he takes the towel and says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she answers quietly, turning and closing the door.

Rhysand sighs. He loves her. He loves her so much.

Sanford already ate. So while Rhysand eats quickly, Sanford grabs pillows and blankets from her room and places them on the sofa, smoothing them out, fluffing the pillows, making sure they're comfortable and soft.

Rhysand watches her. He can't believe she's here.

She looks at him, frowning, and Rhysand really, really wants to kiss her. "I just realized...I offered you the couch even though you might not want it. If it's more comfortable for you, you can—"

"I want it," Rhysand says. It'll make his back ache tomorrow, probably, but who cares, right? Not him. "I want it."

She swallows hard. "Okay." Sanford nods. "Okay, you can, um, go ahead and rest after. I'll take a shower."

Rhysand nods. "Okay."

Sanford flees to her room.

He smiles down at the table. God, he loves her. He loves her a lot.

Rhysand struggles to find a good position on the sofa, laying the back of his head on his hand. He can barely fit his legs here, but it's fine. It doesn't matter.

Sanford peeks her head across the hallway. She's in a shirt and shorts. Rhysand remembers when she would wear his shirt to sleep. "Are you...comfortable enough?"

"Yeah," Rhysand answers. "Don't worry about me, I'm fine."

Sanford nods, biting her lip. "Okay. Um, goodnight."

Rhysand's lips pull up into a half-smile. "Night, sunshine."

She stares at him for a moment longer, then she turns around and softly clicks her door closed.

Rhysand sighs. He loves her. He can never love anyone as much as he loves her.

He closes his eyes, and tries to sleep.