"You don't have to swim. You can just… be near it."
Something cracks in my chest. This impossible man, this stone-faced soldier who counts my drinks and judges my choices, brought me to the ocean because I told him I missed it.
We walk along the shore in silence. The waves lap toward my feet and I let them, just barely, the cold water kissing my toes before retreating. Each touch is a small victory and a smaller heartbreak.
"She used to sing in the water," I say suddenly, the memory hitting sharp and sweet. "Rihanna. My mother. She'd float on her back for hours, making up songs about the clouds, the birds, the way light hit the waves. Said the ocean was her orchestra and she was just trying to keep up. She taught me to float before I could swim properly. Said if you trusted the water, it would hold you up. We'd lie there together, her singing, me trying to be as still as she was. I never could. Always had to be moving, kicking, splashing." I laugh, but it comes out wrong. "She'd say 'Mija, you fight the water like it's your enemy. Let it be your friend.'"
"So is it your friend?"
I scoff. "The water doesn't hold anyone up. It just takes."
I glance at him. His black t-shirt shows everything: the breadth of his shoulders, the way his chest tapers to his waist, the shadows of muscle that shift when he moves. There aretattoos on his right arm. Military insignia, dates that probably mean something terrible. Without thinking, I reach out, my fingers almost touching the ink, then jerk my hand back.
"Your shoulders are threatening too," I blurt out, covering my almost-touch with deflection.
"Threatening how?"
"They're very… broad. And muscled. Do you throw people often?"
"Only on special occasions."
"See, I can't tell if you're joking."
"I don't joke."
"You literally just…" I stop walking, studying his profile. "You're messing with me."
"Unlikely."
But there's something in his eyes when he glances at me, something warmer than his usual assessment. For a moment, I think he might kiss me again. My heart stops. The air between us thickens.
Then he looks away. "We should head back soon."
I want to scream. I want to grab his stupidly perfect face and demand to know what last night meant. Instead, I just nod and try not to let him see how his rejection stings.
"Holy shit. You're Marisol Delgado."
The voice comes from behind us, and I tense immediately. A guy in his late twenties approaches, all golden tan and expensive swim trunks, the kind of man who treats the beach like his personal kingdom.
"I've seen you at La Sirena," he continues, getting closer. Too close. "You probably don't remember me."
I don't. They all blur together: the men with their bottle service and their wandering hands and their assumption that my chaos means consent.
"My boys and I had a table for my birthday last month. You danced on it." His grin turns lewd. "Best fucking night of my life."
I want to disappear. Of all the moments for my reality to catch up, of all the reminders of who I've been. The disaster, the party favor, the girl who'll do anything for attention.
"We're leaving," I say, but he's already reaching out.
His hand doesn't just touch my arm. It slides down from my elbow to my waist, fingers spreading possessively against my ribs. "Aw, come on. Let me buy you a drink. There's a place nearby."
What happens next takes three seconds.
Nico moves faster than thought. One moment the guy is touching me, the next Nico has him by the throat. No warning. No words. Just violence, sudden and absolute.
He drags the guy toward where the beach turns rocky, where the waves crash against jagged stone. The guy tries to fight. He's fit, probably thinks he's tough. But against Nico he's nothing. A doll made of flesh and poor decisions.
The throw is brutal.
