“Wait,” he called.

She took another step, then turned back to face him.

“Do you really think it works that way? One or the other? We’ll just go back to hanging out, when all the time I’ll know I’m on some list in your head labeled ‘Not Good Enough’?”

“No! I-it’s not like that!”

He unbuckled his belt.

“What are you doing?” she yelped.

“I want you to know.” He shoved down his jeans, tore off his t-shirt, kicked away his sandals. “Say the word and I’ll put my pants back on and we can talk. But I want you to know exactly what you’re walking away from. Not sex. This. Me. No secrets.” He spread his arms.

She looked at him, standing there in his boxers, silhouetted against the moonlit sea, wind pushing at his floppy hair. She wrapped her arms around herself. Even in the dim light, she saw him: his long lean shape, his bones, his scars. She’d known them for years.

“I don’t mean to ruin the moment,” he whispered, “but it’s kind of freezing out here.”

“I’m thinking,” she said, hugging herself more tightly.