As he lied there, he came to the realization that this—their long-awaited love-making—was unlikely to make anything easier for them. She'd given herself to him physically and he'd given himself to her emotionally; both came with their own complications and insecurities, and on top of that, the distance and uncertainty between them over the next few weeks was likely to leave them with more longing than satisfaction. Their seaside cottage, as vibrant as it was in his imagination, would have to wait, and the length would depend on factors they couldn't control.

He loved her. He'd miss her.

"I don't want to leave," he admitted, angling his head so he could press a kiss to her forehead. "I'm afraid you've gone and gotten me addicted to you now; it's terribly unfair."

But they had to. The candlelit streetlights were not enough to light the street paths at this time of night, and he didn't doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Lynch would check on her at some point. If they were to find out about this—about them—they could disavow her, condemn him, or both. (And even if they did make him marry her, he'd rather not be on poor terms with his in-laws.) He let out a deep breath and turned towards her.

"We need to both get home," he sighed, the disappointment evident in his tone. He smoothed a stray piece of hair out of her face and caught her gaze. "But I love you, Febs. We'll make this work—I promise."

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