"So I've heard you're from Georgia."

I looked up. "Yeah, me and --"

"Yeah, I definitely knew Leanne was. Accent."

I laughed. "Yup, well, we don't talk like dem Yanks."

"Yanks are people from New York."

I laughed again, throwing my head back to mock his cluelessness. "Yeah, sure. Basically anyone from the North, really."

"Huh." He played with the dregs of his cappuccino, clinking the spoon against the sides of the porcelain mug while looking out the window. A certain draftiness emanated from the empty space of his vast apartment, and the rain only amplified it. His face was contemplative, masked.

I stared at the side of his face for a moment, noticing how subtle the shadows were on his nose, and the curvilinear of his jawline, and the mousiness of his brown hair. Neither of us had turned on the kitchen light, so we had nestled into the darkness comfortably and admired the London skyline via coffee and The Daily Telegraph.

"Do you miss Georgia?" he asked, turned back to me.

I blinked, trying to not seem suspicious, and finally murmured a, "Mhmm."

"What was it like?"

It took me a moment to answer. "Well, it was home. It was so, like, beautiful, you know? One of the best moments of my life would be when I would roll down the window of the car in April or May, feeling the wind of my face, smelling the honeysuckle in the night air. And you would look up and see a ginormous arch of stars..." A knot in my throat had settled in.

There were a few seconds of silence as he stared past my eyes, as if imagining it. "Sounds really good."

I smiled. "I didn't think I would get homesick," I said, picking up my mug and draining the last of its contents. "But, I do."

"When are you leaving?" he asked quietly, unfolding his arms and laying them against the table. His fingers were inches from my arms, the tension of closeness raising the hair on the back of my neck.

"Tomorrow."