“Does it work?”
“Most of the time.” He crouched down, dipping his hands in the water. “The trick is finding what works for you. For some people, it's movement. For others, it's stillness. You just have to experiment until you find your thing.”
“What if I don't have a thing?”
“Everyone has a thing. You just haven't found yours yet.” He splashed water at me, playful. “But standing here right now, not having a panic attack? That's a start.”
He was right. My breathing had evened out, my hands had stopped shaking, and the tightness in my chest had eased to something manageable. The cold water anchored me, gave me something concrete to focus on besides the chaos in my head.
“Come here,” Dusty said, his voice shifting to something lower, more intimate.
I moved closer, careful of my footing on the slick stones. When I reached him, he cupped water in his hands and let it run through his fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“Baptizing you.” His smile was teasing but his eyes were serious. “Fresh start. New beginning. All that symbolic shit.”
“I don't need symbolism. I need—” But the words died when he reached up, his wet hands gentle as they moved through my hair. Water trickled down my neck and shoulders, cool against sun-warmed skin.
I closed my eyes, letting myself feel it. The weight of his hands. The slide of water down my spine. The sound of the creek constant and soothing beneath everything else. For the first time in days, maybe longer, I wasn't bracing against sensation. I was just letting it happen.
When I opened my eyes, Dusty was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Not the practiced calm of the yoga instructor or the careful concern of the last two days. Something more naked than that. More real.
“What do you need?” he asked, and the question felt like it was about more than this moment.
I wanted to say something flip, something easy that would let us both off the hook. But standing here in the creek with him, water flowing around us and sunlight filtering through oak leaves, I couldn't hide behind easy answers.
“I need to feel like my body is mine again,” I said. “I need you to help me remember what good feels like. Not pills-good or numb-good, but actually good. Present. Alive.” I paused, searching for the right words. “I need to feel like I'm not broken. And I need it to be you.”
Something shifted in his expression. “Cord—”
“I know this is complicated. I know you're leaving and I'm a mess.” My throat tightened. “But I'm asking anyway.”
He cupped my face in his hands, water still dripping from his fingers. “You're not broken. Hurting. But not broken.”
“Then prove it to me,” I said. “Please.”
We just stood there looking at each other, the current pulling at our legs, the world narrowed to just this, him and me and the choice hanging between us.
Then he kissed me.
The kiss started gentle but turned hungry fast. Like we'd both been holding back, and the dam had finally broken. My good arm went around his waist, pulling him closer until our bodies were pressed together, water swirling around our legs.
“We should go back to the cabin,” he murmured against my mouth.
“Why? No one's out here.”
“Cord—”
“I need this.” The desperation in my voice surprised me. “I need to feel something besides panic and pain. Please.”
He pulled back enough to meet my eyes, searching my face. Whatever he saw there must have convinced him because he nodded. “Okay. But not in the water. Come on.”
He led me out of the creek to where limestone rocks jutted out from the bank, flat surfaces worn smooth by centuries of weather. The stone was warm under my hands as I braced myself, still dripping creek water. Dusty moved behind me, his body heat a contrast to the cold water soaking my jeans.
“Tell me if your shoulder hurts,” he said, hands sliding under my wet shirt.
“It doesn't hurt.” Not exactly true, but the ache was distant, manageable. Everything else was louder—the sound of water over stone, birds calling from the oaks, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
