"Ben." My voice rasps like I'm breathing through a straw. I try to reach for him, but my hand falls uselessly to the rock.
When he sees how weak I am, he exhales sharply, drags a hand up his face, and pushes to his feet. He walks toward me and sweeps me back in his arms, locking them tight around me.
"Ben..."
He avoids my eyes, as if he can't look at me, but carefully carries me across the slick rock, his body cold for the first time ever.
I cling to him, arms looped around his neck, blinking the salt from my eyes, and when I finally look up, I pause.
Water beads off his hair, and the sun breaks through the clouds, haloing just above his head.
I almost reach for him, touch his face, because he doesn't even look human. Maybe an angel.
Except he's agitated, and shirtless, and I don't picture angels like this. With shoulders like carved stone, lips kissable, and water streaming down the lines of his chest straight into mine.
I know I shouldn't, especially after what I've done, but I can't help it. My heart's hammering against his, in sync, and Idon't want to let go.
But I have to, because he lays me down on the blanket.
Then he drops his jacket, warm from the sun, over my shoulders, and with rough hands makes sure I'm bundled up.
When he collapses beside me, he sucks in oxygen through all that adrenaline and lies there for a while, his arms splayed wide. For the first time since we hit the surf, he's mortal again.
A few more breaths, then he spits out saltwater, coughs again, and heaves himself upright. His eyes flash, staring at me like I’ve grown horns.
"What the fuck, Emma? Are you insane?!" His voice scrapes raw, like gravel. "Why couldn't you just listen for once?"
That look could split me in two.
I curl tighter, wrapping my arms around my knees to stay as small as I can.
I don't know why I can't say anything, probably because I'm beyond embarrassed, and don't even know how to justify what I did.
With cheeks burning, I shrug off his jacket, ready to give it back when—
"Shit, Ben! Your shoulder!" A gash streaks across his left side, bright red. Definitely doesn't look good.
He barely glances at it before brushing it off. "It's fine." Face back on the horizon.
I lean forward, hand flying to him in panic. "No, it's not. Let me see—"
"I said it's fine." He jerks away and turns his back to me completely, like a wall.
I sit here, hugging myself, breathing those ugly hiccups you do when you try not to cry and you're not doing a good job.
All that shame swells in my throat, and I keep swallowing until it's too much.
"Ben?"
He shifts, just a fraction, my trembling voice tugging something in him. Still, won't meet my eyes though. "Yeah?"
"What you said, I deserve that. You must really hate me now."
"I don't." His voice cuts. Flat. Final.
"You should."
"I know," he mutters. Then quieter, almost reluctant: "Trust me. I tried."
