Brooks expels a laugh. "A redstringbikini," he corrects. "That day ruined me."
The air shifts, and play turns into confession.
I grin, brushing my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Why? Because of a swimsuit?"
"I was eighteen and you..." he groans, dropping his head back against the seat. "You were running around with that smile and no clue what you were doing to me."
"Oh my god." I start to laugh. "Is that why you stayed waist-deep in the lake until dark?"
He nods dramatically. "I couldn't walk to shore without humiliating myself."
I bite back a giggle, covering my mouth. "That is both hilarious and adorable."
"Adorable?" He raises a brow, then smirks. "It was agony."
I trace his jaw with my thumb, smiling at the memory. "Poor Brooks."
"Poor me?" he scoffs. "When I got home, I took a two-hour shower. Pretty sure I broke a personal record."
I gasp-laugh, shoving his shoulder. "You did not."
He leans in close, his breath hot on my cheek. "Elowen, you were in a string bikini, and I was in love with you."
My heart stutters. The playfulness fades into something weightier, something tender.
The air between us changes.
"L-love?" I stammer, the word catching in my throat.
Brooks grins, not cocky for once, just warm. "You know... in that clueless teenage boy kind of way. I didn't know what lovewasback then."
"And now?" I tease, trying to lighten the mood, even as something in me starts to spin.
He shrugs, brushing a strand of hair off my cheek. "I'm not sure I've figured it out completely. But if wanting to be around you all the time, wanting to make you laugh, wanting to be the person who shows up when no one else does, if that counts for anything."
I sigh, my fingertips trailing gently down his chest. "You had it bad, huh?"
He's quiet for a second. Then, his arms pull me in close, wrapping me in a way that feels more like a promise than a touch. His breath is soft against my ear when he whispers, "Still do, Ellie. I still do."
The words land somewhere deep. I don't know what to say. Or how to hold it. I'm used to being the one who leaves, not the one someone waits for. Not the one someone carries in their heart for this long.
But what if he doesn't really know me? Not the real me, just the idea of me that lives in his head? What if I disappoint him the second he realizes I'm not just this fierce girl from his childhood memories, but someone broken and messy and unsure?
And then there's my life in California. The one I'm going back to. The one I built. I'm not staying here forever. Does he know that?
But all of those thoughts vanish when his lips find mine again, and suddenly I'm not thinking at all. My fingers move on their own, sliding down between us, palming him through his shorts. He’s already hard, and it steals my breath.
"Do you... have a condom?" I manage to ask between kisses.
"Glovebox," he murmurs.
Just as I turn to reach for it, two glaring headlights sweep across the truck.
I freeze. "Uh oh."
Brooks groans and drops his head back against the seat. "I bet that's Russ."
"Russ Cartwright?" I duck, laughing under my breath. For a second, I feel seventeen again—caught and breathless. "Oh my God, I haven't heard that name in years."
