“There,” Hudson says. “That’s where your eyes go. Not at your feet. Not straight down. Across.”
“Across,” I repeat.
“Good.”
His voice has changed. It is still low. Still calm. But there is something in it that wraps around me better than reassurance. Command, maybe. Not the obnoxious kind. Not the Harold kind, although Harold rarely commanded anything. He suggested. He deferred. He made responsibility feel like a spreadsheet.
Hudson’s command feels different. It is physical, grounded, and certain. Like he is not taking my choice away. He is loaning me his nerve until mine shows up.
“Arms in close when you hit,” he says. “Don’t flail.”
“I’m excellent at flailing.”
“Not today.”
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
At least he owns it.
My fingers curl at my sides. “What if I freeze?”
“Then we step back.”
“What if I don’t jump?”
“Then you don’t jump.”
“What if I’m embarrassed?”
“You’ll survive that too.”
I turn my head just enough to see him.
Hudson is watching me, not the water. His expression is focused, but not impatient. That does something to me. It wouldalmost be easier if he pushed. If he teased me into proving him wrong. If he smirked and said something like,Come on, sweetheart, don’t be scared.Then I could make him the enemy. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, ready to catch me if I step back and ready to guide me if I leap.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
His brow furrows. “Do what?”
“Make it my choice.”
For a second, he says nothing. The wind moves between us, carrying the scent of lake water and pine.
“Because it is,” he says.
Something inside me twists. I look away quickly. The water blurs. Oh, this is ridiculous. I am not crying on a cliff. Not here in front of him.
Here I am with a man younger than me who understands consent and choice better than the life I spent years trying to want.
“Layla,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
I laugh once, shaky and embarrassed. “That’s worse.”
