I stare at him.
I've imagined this conversation a hundred times. I imagined him explaining himself, justifying it, or doubling down, or pretending it didn't matter as much as it did.
I didn't imagine him just saying I'm sorry like it cost him something.
The humility of it shakes something loose in my chest that I'd spent years cementing shut.
I don't say anything. I don't trust what would come out.
We're closer than we were a few minutes ago. I notice it gradually, the way the space between us has narrowed without either of us making a conscious move.
He's maybe eighteen inches away now.
I can see the scar on his arm below the waterline, the raised line of it distorted by the moving water. I can see the controlled set of his jaw and the way a muscle moves there when he looks at me.
His hand moves under the water.
Slow. Deliberate. His fingertips find my forearm where it's resting against the edge of the jacuzzi, barely touching, just the light drag of one finger along my skin beneath the surface.
I shiver.
He pulls his hand back immediately, his expression shifting into something careful. "I won't?—"
"Don't." I reach under the water and find his wrist before he can pull it all the way back, wrapping my fingers around it. "Don't pull away."
"Isabella—"
"Your touch is the only touch I don't fear." I say it plainly because I'm tired of not saying things plainly to him. "I don'tknow what that means. But I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid of your hands. So don't pull them away."
He looks at me for a long moment. "For the record, Isabella… I want you. I want you a little too much," he whispers while I sit there, frozen in shock.
Then he turns his hand and his palm slides along my forearm slowly, and I feel every inch of it like he's leaving a trail of fire under the water.
He moves closer.
The eighteen inches becomes twelve, becomes eight, and the water shifts with his movement and his knee brushes mine under the surface and neither of us mentions it.
His hand moves from my forearm to my waist and he pulls me in slowly, giving me every opportunity to say no, and I don't say no, I move with it, until we're close enough that I have to tilt my head slightly to hold his gaze.
His other hand comes up out of the water, and his fingers trace the line of my collarbone, following it to my shoulder, down my arm, back up, patient and unhurried like he has all the time in the world and no intention of rushing a single second.
"You're shivering," he murmurs, and his voice is lower than usual, rougher at the edges.
"The water's hot," I manage.
"So you shouldn't be shivering."
His thumb traces the strap of my swimsuit top, following it to where it crosses my chest, and his knuckles graze the swell of my breast so lightly it barely counts as contact.
My nipples harden immediately, embarrassingly, visibly, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide it, and I watch his jaw tighten when he feels it under his fingers, watches the sharp intake of breath it pulls from me.
"Fuck…" he whispers. He does it again. Deliberately this time, his thumb dragging slowly over the fabric, over the peaked point of my nipple, and the sound that escapes me is quiet and involuntary and makes his eyes go somewhere very dark.
"E-Enzo—" My voice comes out wrong, breathless and too open.
"I know, Princess," he purrs, low and even, his mouth close to my ear. "Fuck, I know."
His lips brush the curve of my neck and I tilt my head without meaning to, giving him more access, and I feel him almost smile against my skin before his mouth opens and he drags his lips up the side of my throat and I dig my fingers into his shoulder.
