He doesn't ask what bd5 means. He knows. It's the row and seat on the last flight she took to see him. The one where she fell asleep against the window and woke up with a neck crick and his jacket draped over her. He'd walked down the jet bridge, waiting, watching faces blur past until hers — tired, soft, chewing a piece of gum like she'd been nervous the whole way.
Babygirl had started as a joke. A line from a movie neither of them can remember now. But it stuck, grew warm and worn like the hoodie she stole from his closet. babygirl bd5
He texts back: Come home, babygirl. Row bd5's waiting. He doesn't ask what bd5 means
She types it with a sleepy thumb: babygirl bd5 . The one where she fell asleep against the