If only I’d paid more attention.

Then Quasi kissed us both goodbye and walked toward security, not looking back.

Kenzo and I stood motionless as the crowd churned around us — strangers dragging suitcases, families reuniting, flight attendants gliding by. I finally exhaled.

“Okay, sweetheart,” I murmured, turning toward the exit. “Let’s head home.”

That word — home — suddenly felt heavier.

We walked through echoing hallways, past shuttered shops and glowing departure boards. Kenzo stayed silent, gripping my hand so tightly it almost hurt. When we reached the sliding glass doors that led to the parking deck, he stopped dead in his tracks.