Page 92 of Head Under Water

The Will I’ve always known.

I swat his hand with a laugh, but that touch sparks a fire along my arm. When our skin connects, his fingers catch my wrist. There is no air left in this space, only heat. Flames. Our eyes lock.

He pulls me across the console, and it’s like gravity itself conspires to push us together.

His lips crash into mine, desperate and begging for more.

More touch, more pressure, more everything.

A lifetime of longing. Of almost.

“Inside,” he mutters, barely dragging our mouths apart.

He grabs the keys and we’re out of the car in seconds, stumbling up the stairs like we’ve forgotten how to use our feet. Forgotten everything except this feeling, this anticipation.

Limbs tangle. Breaths come ragged in between laughter and gasps.

Every sound we make echoes with memories of an entirely different kind: mud fights, pool days, games of Truth or Dare we barely survived.

And somehow, we ended up here.

He takes hold of my thighs and lifts me, slamming us into the wall in the stairwell. His body is hot against mine, strength met with careful control.

He knows me.

My edges, my body. Exactly what I need.

He uses his hands just the way he did all those years ago during our game in the dark, to control and command me. To put me right where he wants me—needs me—and for reasons I’ll never understand, I like it.

I want more of it.

“Keys,” I whisper against his lips when, at last, we reach the door. His tongue brushes mine with a spark that shoots straight through me.

“Pocket,” he says, refusing to take his hands off me for even a second.

“Which one?”

He grins against my mouth. “You’re the one climbing me like a tree. Which do you think?” He pauses. “Unless, of course, you have no feeling down there, in which case you might be setting me up for failure.”

I punch his shoulder, eyes narrowing as I slide down his body and come to stand on my jelly-like legs. “Maybe you’re going to fail anyway. I know what I like in there. I won’t go easy on you.”

He laughs, breathless and shaking with the kind of delight only I can bring on, as he digs in his pocket. “Opal, you have never once gone easy on me in your life. I wouldn’t expect you to start now.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

He pulls his head back slowly, studying my face. “Do I…have you now?”

The question hangs there, thick in the air between us—too heavy, too real—but he twists the key in the lock and shoves the door open. He kisses me again, sliding his hands down my arms to grip my waist and guide me inside.

Hand carefully tucked along my jaw, he presses himself against me, breaths mingling, hearts racing.

The apartment is dark and familiar, ours in a way that’s different from our moms’ land. Their homes are our childhood wrapped in memories. Every corner, every garden, and every tree contains some version of us—muddy, screaming, fighting, daring each other to jump from higher places than we should.

This space is new. Open. Ready for whatever we bring to it.

It’s both exciting and overwhelming.

He shuts the door with his heel.