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My chest tightens.

“I hate that more than I hate being mad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

Then he looks down at himself. Something shifts in his face.

“Oh, fuck it.” He tosses the spoon onto the patio table. “What’s good for the goose.”

“What are you doing?”

He pulls his shirt over his head.

“Clint.”

“Don’t make a thing of it.”

“I’m not making it a thing. It’s just… a thing.”

His mouth twitches.

He kicks out of his shorts, then his underwear, less graceful than he probably intends and somehow better for it. Then he stands there naked in the gold light, all long limbs and tanned skin and lined muscle.

My throat works as he steps to the edge of the pool and sits beside me, lowering his feet into the water beside mine.

Our knees almost touch.

“There,” he says. “Now we’re both naked idiots.”

I let out a shaky laugh.

“Yes,” I say. “That does seem to be where we align.”

He nudges my shoulder, and it feels like a long-held breath escaping.

Dinner smells better than anything in the Romantic Zone has any right to.

Garlic. Tomatoes. Olives. Something sharp and salty that makes my stomach remember it has been neglected through every emotional crisis of the day.

Clint moves around the kitchen like the room belongs to him. Barefoot. Bare-assed. He tastes from a spoon, adjusts the heat, throws in capers with too much confidence. Calm enough to be irritating.

“What is it?”

“Spaghetti puttanesca.”

I look up from the table. “That sounds fancy.”

“It means spaghetti the way a whore makes it.”

I blink back at him.

“Tomatoes, olives, capers, anchovies—because we’re not cowards. Fast. Cheap. Salty. Gets the job done.”

“Whore pasta. Romantic.”

“It’s your birthday. I pulled out all the stops.”