A moment passes.
“The beach cleanup trended, for what it’s worth. We hit number four on YouTube.” Her gaze drops to the shimmering depths. “Blaze kept the camera rolling even after you went down.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I watched the replay.”
Her head snaps up, her expression a messy cocktail of terror, relief, and something softer(something she’s hell-bent on burying).But it sinks into my chest, like a jagged hook finding bone.
“Cole,” she says, her voice turning careful. “Are you actually okay?”
“I’m good. I promise.”
She gives me a long, shaky exhale that ripples the surface. “Great. Then I’m finishing my laps. Go get some sleep.”
“Ivy, wait.” I exhale. “I owe you.”
She stills, staying afloat but refusing to meet my gaze.
“The doctor laid it out for me,” I force out. “Seconds. He said I was seconds away. Everything compounded: the cut on my palm, the shellfish, the heat, the waves. My body was about to pull the plug.”
I hook a finger under her chin, lift it, and force her eyes to meet mine.
“You saw it first. You ran.”
A single tear breaks loose, making a slow path down her flushed cheek. She doesn’t stop it. Her throat moves as she swallows hard. “Glad you’re okay, Hartwell.”
She wheels around and strikes out for the shallow end, her strokes jagged and frantic, as if she’s wanting to outswim the very air between us.
I move. Pure instinct.
Muscle and need drive me forward, closing the space.She reaches the steps, the water sluicing off every soft, wet inch of her. I snatch her wrist.
She stops.
“I didn’t mean—” I start, huffing out a rough, frustrated breath. “Look, I’m trying to say thank you without screwing it up. Give me a chance.”
“If you’re passing out gratitude, start with Sienna,” she says, that clipped, defensive rhythm back in her voice. “She’s the one who knew what she was doing.”
“CPR wouldn’t have saved me,” I say, squeezing her palm. “You did.”
“Just doing my job, Cole.”
“Saving my life isn’t in your job description. I saw the video. Your face. You thought I was gone. I watched you hold my hand… like you are now.”
I track the line of her trembling arm down to where our hands are welded together. Her fingers aren’t simply touching mine. They’re laced through them, deep and tight, her palm fused to my own.
I don’t say another word. She wants to retreat—into reasons, arguments, something safe. There’s nothing safe about us.
I tug.
And then—
She’s against me, every soft, damp inch of her molded to my rough edges. Her breath catches as I slide my free hand to the small of her back, the wet spandex of her suit slick under my touch.
I grant her a beat to protest. To hide behind the rivalry.
She comes closer, her gaze dropping to my mouth.
Fuck it.I’m done pretending.
