By the following morning, Vaughn was almost back to 100 and they languidly re-packed their things.

"Do we really have to go back already," Vaughn asked rhetorically. He was in the bathroom, and Sydney thought about asking him why he used so much toothpaste. Their tube that had been new when they'd left was nearly half gone.

"I know," she sighed, though she felt secretly relieved that they would be getting back to their routine—what little routine their lives had—and away from the decidedly tense "relaxation" that a honeymoon apparently entailed. She was ready to be away from this place, alien with its tropical plants, the constant noise of the ocean, and population of lethargic, sun-drunk vacationers. And, of course, a certain vacationer whose presence she could not have predicted and was totally unprepared for. She wondered if Sark was like rain; if you bring your umbrella, it won't rain. But how to be prepared for Sark? She was already carrying a gun. Forecast today: scattered thunderstorms and a 75 likelihood of Sark showers. She snickered but caught herself before actually making an audible sound.

"Do you want to grab breakfast before we head out?" Vaughn asked. "I probably should eat something solid before plane food—we don't want to have a repeat of last night."

"Sure," she smiled, placing her fingertips on his lips as he pecked her forehead. "Let's go."


The flight was short, a little less than 3 hours, and in what seemed like no time, they were touching down at LAX. The wheels of the jet raised a tiny puff of smoke and the screech of the rubber against the blacktop was audible due to the slight crosswind. Vaughn stirred in the seat next to her where he had been dozing. Unable to sleep, Sydney had resorted to staring out the window at the clouds. She leaned over and wrestled her carry-on bag from beneath her seat, looking for her cell phone to call Eric to pick them up at the airport. As she dug through her things, her fingers brushed against a foreign object.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the pilot intoned over the plane's speaker system, "This concludes our flight today. Local time here in Los Angeles is 4:45 PM, weather is a balmy 78 degrees with winds out of the southwest, and tower is reporting a slight chance of thunderstorms later tonight. Have a nice day, and thank you for choosing Spirit Airlines."

She glanced at Vaughn, who had closed his eyes again as they taxied to the gate. She bent over further, and looked inside the carry-on where it rested on the floor between her feet.

It was a book. Drawing it out from under her cosmetics case, her heart beat a little harder to see that it was Death in Venice. Sark's copy of Death in Venice, to be more precise. With a huff, she yanked the zipper closed and sat back in her seat with her arms crossed. Her body felt wobbly, boneless with surprise. How had he gotten that in her things? They hadn't been out of her sight for more than—

Breakfast. She had left the carry-on in their room at breakfast. She felt unexpectedly violated to know that he'd been in their room, looking at their things. She could just imagine him poking his finger into their suitcase and smirking silently at their petty belongings, the banality of their socks and underwear amusing him in some sick way.

The plane taxied agonizingly slowly to the gate, and Sydney bounced her leg, pressing the ball of her left foot into the carpet in irritation. How dare he? Her leg moved so quickly it practically vibrated.

"Are you OK?" Vaughn asked, his eyes still closed.

"Huh?" she started at his question. "What, yes—why do you ask?"

Vaughn opened his eyes and looked at her without raising his head from the headrest. "You're about to bore a hole in the floor with your foot." A smile quirked at his lips and she immediately regretted snapping at him.

"Oh—sorry, is it bothering you?" She took a deep breath and tried to slow her nervous twitch. "I'm just really ready to get off the plane, that's all."

At that, Vaughn finally raised his head and leaned over to her so that his lips were against her ear. "I can't wait to get home," he breathed. "We can put off writing thank-you notes a little while longer, don't you think?" As he gently nuzzled the lobe of her ear and her upper jaw with his nose, she closed her eyes against the slow heat that was beginning to lap at her upper thighs. There were the things they weren't so good at, like toothpaste economy, but there were plenty of things they were expert at. They'd had plenty of time over the years to perfect pent-up desire, she was certain of that.

"Did you call Eric yet," he asked, his voice low, throaty next to her head.

"Not yet," she whispered, finally turning her head to meet his lips. As she tilted her head to the right to get a better angle, she caught a glimpse of two children seated behind them, peering through the crack between their seats. They were twins, a boy and a girl, each with hair as white-gold as corn silk cut into a page-boy haircut. They stared at her and Vaughn, perfectly solemn, and as her tongue traced against Vaughn's, she dimly heard their mother telling them to get their things together.