Mason snorts. “Then take it off.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, shoving at the fabric again.
“Hunter—”
“I said I’m fine,” I grit out, harsher than I’d intended.
He pauses, his expression softening. “This would be a lot easier if you took it off. It’s just me.”
I stare at him for a long moment as my anxiety loosens its grip, and my shoulders untense. He means it. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just that steady patience he has when he’s coaxing me out of my thoughts.
I nod numbly before standing upright again. I tug the wet shirt over my head, staring down at the water, refusing to look at him. My skin immediately prickles with goosebumps.
“See?” he says, tossing my shirt back toward our spot on the sand. “All good.”
His hands settle on my waist again. I try to ignore the way his thumbs brush over my protruding hipbones.
“Alright, let’s try it this way,” he says, turning me around.
He hooks his arms under my armpits, my back pressed against his warm chest.
“Lean into me,” he encourages.
Slowly, I let my back tip toward him. The cold water creeps higher, sliding up my ribs, my shoulders, until it’s lapping against my ears. Mason’s hands find my back and under my arms, steady and supportive.
“Close your eyes,” he urges. “Trust the water. Trust me.”
It’s easier said than done. My body feels tense, my bones heavy. I can hear my own breathing, shallow and fast, over the quiet ripple of the waves.
“Breathe in deep,” he says softly. “Hold it. The air in your lungs will keep you up.”
He’s right. I’m a scientist, after all, and I know I should be able to float. That’s how physics works.
I inhale a long breath. My legs loosen, drifting toward the surface. The water cradles me, cool against my skin.
“Good,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
My eyes stay shut, but I can feel the sun on my face, the waves rocking me like a slow heartbeat. His palms are still braced under my lower back.
“Are you okay if I let go? I’ll be right here. I promise.”
I swallow. “Alright.”
After a moment, his hands slip away. I tense, but I’m still there, suspended.
“See? You’re fine,” he says.
I crack one eye open. He’s right beside me, watching, his curls wet and sticking to his forehead. His expression is softer than I’ve ever seen it, like he’s proud of me.
“Now, try moving your arms a little. Slow, steady movements. Just let yourself glide.”
I barely move them, stroking outward. The shift is small, but I drift forward, smooth and easy. It’s… peaceful, in a way I didn’t expect. And I know Mason’s right next to me in case things start going south.
“You can try a backstroke now, if you want,” Mason says.
I glance up at him. “You’ll stay next to me?”
“Of course.”
