“I have to leave tomorrow, remember,” I mutter, my voice low between light pecks I place on your neck from where I’m stood behind you, my arms looped around your midsection.

It’s early evening and the sun has just started to set over the water, casting an orange tint over us as we stand on the balcony of the place I’d rented out for us in the Hamptons this week. You’re wearing a long summer dress that flows with the breeze, not having changed yet from dinner since we just got back.

I don’t know how to explain what this is between us. I hate the term “teenage fling” but I suppose that’s what it would classify as. We’ve had a great summer together, but I leave to go back on tour tomorrow after a small break and likely won’t have time to come back for another few months. I suppose there’s just a mutual understanding that this is our last night we’re able to be together. Which is why I had the hindsight to steal you away for a few days and take a little break, getting away from the crowded public city.