He stayed quiet; it was the only thing to do.
“I never said that out loud,” she said. “I painted around it. I walked it. I wrote it in sketch margins and then scribbled over it. But I didn’t say the words. It felt like betrayal.”
“It’s not,” he said.
“I know that now,” she said. “But back then, it felt like wanting anything meant I was choosing something over her. So I chose nothing. For a long time.”
He traced a slow circle on the back of her hand with his thumb. “And now?” he asked.
“Now I’m trying to choose,” she said. “Even when it’s terrifying. The warehouse. You. Telling my parents I’m staying. Using the insurance money for something important and for my future. It feels like shouting into the universe that I want a future. That I believe I might have one. I called Charlie and told him I was staying, and he sounded excited for me. He said Bryn would be proud of me. That means everything to me.”
He exhaled. “I wonder if he even knows how much you needed to hear that,” he said. “That’s survival.”
“What about you?” she asked, turning the question back on him. “What do you usually leave out?”
He looked out at the horizon, where the water met the sky in a hazy line. “People like the neat version,” he said. “Guy goes over there, sees bad things, comes home, rides fast to keep the ghosts quiet. Wins races, gets the girl. They don’t want to hear about the nights I drank too much just to sleep, or the time I stood in my parents’ garage and thought about turning on the car and closing the door.”
Her breath hitched; her fingers tightened around his.
“I didn’t,” he whispered. “Obviously. Colby walked in, looking for a torque wrench, and saw my face. He dragged me out by the shirt and sat me on the driveway and talked sports statistics at me for an hour until whatever had me by the throat loosened. Then he made me promise I’d tell him if the dark ever got that loud again.”
“Did you?” she asked.
“Not every time,” he said. “But enough. Every time I thought about not bothering anyone with my crap, I saw his face in that moment, the way it went white, and I made myself say something.”
She blinked hard. “Thank you,” she said. “For staying.”
He smiled, small and a little crooked. “Kind of glad I did,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d have missed out on you calling me responsible in public.”
“High praise,” she said.
The boat rocked gently; a gull cried somewhere overhead. The air tasted like salt and possibility.
“Can I tell you something selfish?” she asked.
“Always,” he said.
“I like this,” she said. “Not just the boat. You. The way you talk about the dark without pretending it never touches you. It makes me feel less broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he said. “You’re… rebuilt. So am I.”
Her smile trembled. “Rebuilt,” she repeated. “I can live with that.”
He leaned in, slow enough for her to see him coming, and kissed her.
It started soft; a question, not a demand. She answered it with the way her hand slid up his chest, fingers curling at the back of his neck. He deepened it gradually, letting the world drop away until there was nothing but the gentle sway of the boat and the press of her mouth against his.
She shifted closer, one knee pressing against his thigh. He set his free hand on her hip, anchoring her. The kiss turned hotter, the kind of slow burn that had his pulse pounding and his brain shorting out in the best possible way.
She broke away on a breath, eyes dark. “This counts as a normal date, right?” she asked, voice a little rough.
“Pretty sure,” he said. “We have a boat, a view, and the possibility of getting sunburned in awkward places.”
She laughed; the sound slid right into his bloodstream. “Then I’d say it’s going well.”
“Want to make it better?” he asked.
Her gaze flicked to the small cuddy cabin under the console, then back to him. “Are we about to become those people?” she asked. “The ones who tell stories about that one time on the boat?”
