“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?”
“We don’t have to,” he said. “We can just sit here and make out like teenagers.”
She considered that for a moment, then shook her head slowly. “Seems a shame to waste the scenery,” she said.
He kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding under the hem of her sweater to find warm skin. She shivered, but not from cold.
They moved together in the confined space of the bench; bodies twisting, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers, the boat rocking gently under them. Every brush of skin, every small gasp from her, ratcheted his desire higher, but he forced himself to stay present, to watch her face, to listen.
“You okay?” he asked when he had her stretched out along the seat, her sweater bunched near her ribs, his hand splayed over her stomach.
“More than okay,” she said, breathlessly. “Keep going.”
He did, mapping her with his mouth and hands, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint hint of sunscreen. She arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, as if she needed something solid to hold on to while the rest of her came loose.
By the time he slid into her, both of them were already half undone. He moved slowly at first, letting them find a rhythm that matched the sway of the boat. She met him, every roll of her hips saying yes, this, more. The world narrowed to the heat between them, the sound of their breath, the quiet slap of water against the hull.
When she came, it was with his name on her lips, her body tightening around him in a way that dragged him over the edge with her. He buried his face in her neck and let go, shuddering, the release as much emotional as physical.
They lay there for a long moment afterward, tangled and flushed, the boat rocking them in a slow, absentminded cradle.
“This might ruin all future dates,” she said eventually, voice muffled against his shoulder. “The bar is very high now.”
He laughed, feeling loose and wrecked in the best way. “I’ll try to keep up,” he said.
“You usually do,” she replied.
He kissed her forehead, then reluctantly disentangled enough to help her sit up and straighten her clothes. They made some attempt at tidying themselves, laughing quietly whenever the boat shifted at the wrong moment and threw them against each other again.
Once they were mostly presentable, she leaned back against the rail, closed her eyes, and tilted her face to the sun.
“This feels like cheating,” she said.
“On who?” he asked.
