Memory surges. Hot sand, porches crammed with friends, Leo always between us, the ocean working the shore in tireless swells.
“You had no idea what you were doing to me,” Nate says, confession scraping through him. “Running into the surf, stretched on your towel, laughing without a care. Half the time, I couldn’t breathe.” His jaw goes tight. “And I hated myself for wanting you that bad when I wasn’t supposed to.”
Every nerve wakes.
His stare sharpens. “So tell me, Eden, why didn’t you come to the ferry when I left for camp? Why did you cut me off?” He swallows, eyes searching mine. “You were always there. Every summer parting. Except that last year. I kept looking back. Waiting to see you run down the dock.”
The memory lands heavy: me on the sand, waiting, wrecked.
“The night before, I wanted to talk to you. I was looking everywhere,” he continues, voice rough. “I went to the bay. Sat on the steps. Checked the beach stairs. You were gone.”
My stomach drops; my fingers catch his coat. “Then why didn’t you come to the beach? I waited for you.” My wordssplinter. “I left you a note. In your drawer with your T-shirts, ‘Meet me at the beach after dinner.’”
He goes still, every muscle braced. Below us, the tide hisses against the pilings.
“There was no note,” he says, voice scraped raw. “Christ.” His eyes shut, control cracking. “After that kiss—those idiots hooting—I couldn’t think about anything but doing it again. I didn’t dare. I waited. And then the last night hit, and I finally found my nerve. I went looking for you after dinner to tell you how I felt. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”
The dock lifts and settles under my boots. Laughter spills from the house behind us.
He drags a hand over his mouth. “After I left, I called. I texted. First from the train, then from camp. Every day. Nothing. “
Each word lands heavy. I remember letting the phone ring. Deleting his voicemails without pressing play. Telling myself I was protecting my heart.
“I sent emails. Called your parents’ house. For months. Eventually, I told myself I’d imagined it—misread the way you looked at me. Or you were done with the kid who couldn’t say what he wanted.” Ten years of quiet stack between us, and it hurts to stand under it. “And now I finally understand why you cut me off. You were hurting.”
“I didn’t think of you as a friend, Nate,” I whisper. “I thought that’s all I’d ever be. When you didn’t show, I told myself you didn’t feel it. That you were sparing me.”
His gaze flares hot, furious. “I was a kid. I didn’t have the guts to take what I wanted. But you—” He tips my chin up. “You were always more than a friend to me. I was in love with you long before I knew what to call it.”
“So was I,” I admit, the truth finally clean. “For years. I don’t even know when it started.” Anger sharpens insideme. It was Leo. The answer lands with cruel clarity. There’s only one way a note in Nate’s drawer would disappear.
Nate’s thumb finds my jaw, rough and steady. “Eden,” he says, mouth a breath from mine. “I kept calling because I was yours long before I knew the word. Years before. You were never nothing.”
I press my forehead to his, the old hurt shifting into something I can hold. “I thought you chose not to come.”
“I didn’t,” he says. “I would have come if I had known.”
We stand in the shared wreckage for a long beat. I exhale; the pain inside me loosens after a decade of knots. His hand settles at the back of my neck, and when he kisses me, it isn’t frantic. It’s steady. Certain. A promise in slow, careful passes, writing new history over the old.
My fingers fist in his coat and pull him closer. The dock, the tide, the salt in the air—everything settles.
For the first time in years, the ache eases.
32
GIFTS IN PLAIN SIGHT (EDEN)
Iwake to muscle and weight caging me in. Nate’s sprawled half on top of me, one arm heavy at my waist, his leg thrown across mine. The bed across the hall sits untouched—not like he gave me the option last night.
I’m pinned exactly where he put me: my back molded to his chest, his breath at my neck.
“Stop thinking so loud,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
“I wasn’t,” I lie. “I was wondering how long before someone barges in and finds me in your bed.”
His arm tightens, palm pressing flat to my stomach. “Everyone knows you’re in my bed, Trouble. And if I read the room right—except for Leo—they’re cheering us on.” His laugh is low, wicked, as he rolls on top of me, his weight settling me deeper into the mattress. His cock presses hard against me, insistent. “They’re probably even betting how long before you have your way with me.”
My pulse flutters, but instead of backing down, I leaninto the fire. “You think they also know you blindfolded me last night and made me beg?”
