He’s out of the water before I realize what’s happening, water streaming off him in rivulets. I try to scramble away, but he catches my wrist, pulls me to the edge—and with one wicked grin, drags me in, clothes and all.
The water hits cold, bubbles bursting against my skin as I surface, sputtering. “Ash!”
He’s laughing—deep, unrestrained, the kind I almost never hear. “That’s what you get for laughing at me,” he says between chuckles.
“Then don’t belly-flop like a five-year-old!” I shoot back, flicking water at him with my fingers.
He gasps in exaggerated offense. “That was a highly technical dive. Years of training.”
“Uh-huh.” I kick toward him, but he splashes me first, and before I know it, we’re in a full-blown splash war—me shrieking, him laughing so hard he can barely defend himself.
At some point, the game slows. We’re both catching our breath, drifting closer in the water. His eyes find mine, and the mischief in them softens into something warmer, heavier.
“You look good like this,” he murmurs, voice low.
“Soaked?” I arch a brow, but my pulse is already jumping.
“Happy,” he corrects, and that one word melts something in my chest.
A thought bursts through my head—I think I actually want him to read my book. I trust him. I want his encouragement, his ideas for the story. I want him to know me in that way.
I can’t not let him read it, I realize.
So when we both climb out, dripping and laughing, I head inside to get my laptop.
Ash is sprawled across the outdoor sofa when I come back, hair still damp from our swim, a half-empty bottle of sparkling water dangling from his fingers. He looks relaxed—dangerously so, like he has all the time in the world.
The sun is sliding low over the horizon, spilling molten orange across the terrace and turning the ocean to liquid gold. The air is warm, heavy with the scent of frangipani, and somewhere down the beach, a lone gull cries.
I stand in the doorway with my laptop tucked under one arm, pulse skipping. I cross the terrace and hold it out to him.
He glances up, brows lifting. “What’s this?”
“My book,” I say, my voice steady even though my stomach is a tight knot. “Well… half a book.”
His eyes sharpen instantly, curiosity flaring. “You’re actually letting me read it?”
“Yes.” I sink down beside him, heart hammering. “Because… I trust you.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just studies me like I’ve handed him something priceless. Then his mouth curves—not into his usual cocky grin, but something smaller, softer.
“I’ll take good care of it,” he says quietly, taking the laptop from my hands like it’s breakable.
The last sliver of sun dips beneath the horizon, and I realize my chest feels strangely light. Because for the first time, someone else is going to see this part of me.
26
ASH
Mile High
The morning feels different.
Not in a bad way—just… heavier. Like the air is thick with the kind of quiet that comes when something good is about to end.
Olive’s curled up on the terrace with her coffee, wearing one of my shirts and staring out at the ocean like she’s trying to memorize it. I want to tell her I already have—every sunrise, every laugh, every moment of her hair wind-tangled and her skin sun-warmed. But instead, I clear my throat and say, “Car’ll be here in twenty.”
She nods without looking back.
