I grab Cole’s arm. “Did you hear what—”
He turns.
Whatever I was about to say evaporates.
Because he looks… wrong.
Not cocky. Not performing. A hollowed-out void.
Oh, God. This is bad.
I snatch the camera from his hands and shove it into Blaze’s chest. “Keep filming. Tell the Live what’s happening. Don’t you dare drop the feed.”
For once in his chaotic, sunburned life, Blaze doesn’t quip back. He seizes the rig and spins toward the deck.
“Okay, fam, listen up. Shit just got real.” His voice is serious, focused, and present in a way I didn’t think he had in him. “Saltwater Saviors are working, but this is code red. Dr. O just dropped a bomb. Sea lions can only hold their breath ten to twenty minutes, and we have no idea how long our girl’s been down there. I’m moving closer to the action. Stay locked, squad!”
Processing Blaze Tate acting like a competent human will have to wait.
Right now—
“Hey.” I grab Cole again, softer this time. Pulling him into me and forcing eye contact. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” He exhales, and the sound is jagged. “I—I’m going to make the wrong move.”
“What does that mean?”
“All I do is fuck things up. The ATV. The foam cannon. The ghost net—” He cuts himself off, rubbing his face. “Half a fucking million dollars, Ivy. That’s the cost of my ‘brilliant ideas.’”
“You are not solely responsible. It was a group effort.”
“Aren’t I?” He gives a hollow laugh. “I spent the weekend making messes. You cleaned them up. That’s been the system.”
“Well, not the whole weekend,” I tease, trying to lighten the moment. “There was that solid eight-hour window where you made a pretty strong case for your skills. Five times, if I remember correctly.”
A heavy smile tugs at his mouth.
Time isn’t just ticking, it’s roaring in my veins. There’s no room for this, not when a life hangs in the balance. I need the Cole who moves before his brain can talk him out of it.
I glance sideways. Sienna zips up her wetsuit, and Orson is on comms with the crane operator. The pup is still barking its one-note emergency at the surface.
My stomach drops.
“I need you,” I whisper, lacing my fingers through his. “I have no protocol for this. Right now it’s only you, me, and whatever that reckless instinct of yours is urging you to do.” My pulse races as I search his face. “What’s the move, Hartwell?”
His gaze snaps to mine.
A flicker. A spark of something untamed, something dangerous.
There it is.
“My gut’s screaming at me to get in the water,” he says, eyes fixed on the churning waves. “Film the rescue from the inside. No barriers, no bullshit. But the second we’re under?” His jaw flexes. “We are at the ocean’s mercy. Visibility’s trash, the current’s a bitch, and the signal could bail on us at any second.”
He lifts our clasped hands, pressing them to the rough warmth of his cheek, and holds them there with a ferocity that steals the air from my chest.
“I’ll give you everything I’ve got, Stopwatch. But I can’t promise it’ll be enough.”
Is he talking about the rescue? Or us?
