We’re so close it’s hard to tell.
He doesn’t let go of my waist.
I don’t pull away.
Then he blinks, like he remembers where we are and realizes what we’re doing, and releases me. He steps back half a pace, sending a ripple of water between us. “Okay. Maybe we could call that truce now, before we turn into icicles.”
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice just as rough as his. “Truce.”
As we head back to the shore, I catch myself watching the way water slides down the line of his back and how his shoulders flex as he moves. Our teeth are chattering as we climb out and collapse onto the towels side by side. Water drips down my skin as we lie back, and the warmth hits like a blanket over our chilled skin.
Eric turns his head toward me. “You’re shivering.”
“So are you.”
“Am not,” he responds, but he scoots closer anyway, shoulder pressing against mine and leg hooking my ankle like it’s nothing.
Like it isn’t catastrophic to my defenses.
His skin is still cool from the water, but the contact is fire. We lie there, breathing in sync while the sun dries the lake off our bodies bit by bit. His fingers twitch once against my forearm, almost like he’s going to reach over, then he goes still.
The question hangs between us, unspoken and heavy in the quiet, but he doesn’t ask it. He just lets his pinky brush mine once, deliberately.
The tension hums and the afternoon stretches on, lazy and golden, but there’s no rush.
No need for words yet.
Chapter 8
Thedaysfollowingthelake are torture in slow motion. Spring break should mean days off to relax, but textbooks are expensive, and my landscaping job offered overtime for anyone willing to work it this week. It’s left me without a second of freetime. I’m trimming bushes and mowing at sunup, laying mulch at midday, and pressure washing sidewalks at sundown. My hands are blistered and my shirt is permanently damp.
Dmitri has the opposite problem and is stuck indoors. He’s using the time off to cram extra practice hours, while earning brownie points by helping the theory TA organize scores. We’re both on the same campus, but our schedules are misaligned just enough that we keep missing each other. No quick coffee runs, no bumping into each other in the quad. Just texts that feel like the only thing tethering me to him.
I check my phone on every break, heart kicking up every time his name appears.
Dmitri (11:32 A.M.)
You still alive out there?
Honestly? Unsure.
Just finished edging the quad. If I never see another straight line again it’ll betoo soon.
What are you up to?
Trying to escape the practice room dungeon now. Ran scales until my fingers hate me.
At least you haven’t gone through three tubes of sunscreen this week. All that planning, and I still feel like a lobster.
An exhausted lobster, but still a lobster.
That bad?
I’m too delicate to do manual labor.
Delicate?
I can practically hear your sarcasm from here.
