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And she’s there.

Paloma.

She pours into the doorway like the water drenching her body. She’s in her swimsuit with sweatpants covering her from the waist down, also just as soaked, clinging to the curves of her body. Darkened blond hair drips onto the kitchen floor, framing her clean face and chewed-on lips.

The girl I’ve loved since the first moment she opened her mouth—even if I didn’t realize it yet—is in my house.

“You’re swimming again.”

It’s the only thing I can manage, even if I immediately curse myself for it. Observations aren’t greetings.

“I—um, yeah.” She nods, shaking the water off like Seven after a bath. He—just as soaked—mimics her. “You said that yesterday.”

There’s a small smile at those words and I want to grasp it tight with both hands.

“Right.” I scratch at my stubble, feeling for how long it’s been since I shaved. “I was a little . . .”

“Out of it?” She smirks. “High on NyQuil?”

“Yeah.” I nod, blushing.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah.”

Another awkward silence floats between us until I feel a little nauseous over what to say next.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I shouldn’t have stayed with you all night.” My chest squeezes at her words. She stayed with me all night? In my room? “It’s just—no one came home. And I didn’t know if you’d walked Seven or fed him, and then I didn’t want to leave you alone while you were sick. I just . . .”

Exhaustion settles into her expression.

A million questions form and die on my tongue; I’m terrified that something I say will send her running, skittish and fearful again.

“When did you start swimming again?”

It’s not the question she’s expecting, and maybe it’s not the one I meant to ask, but for some reason it feels like the most important one.

“Um, this semester.”

I want to ask more questions. I want to know everything I’ve missed. We’ve danced around each other this semester, and she’s not reached out once for my help, called me to walk her home.

But she’s swimming again. That’s . . . that’s everything.

There’s something healing about the water, for Paloma. It’s the reason I took the time to run her baths, to install the ridiculously expensive rain shower, to sit in the empty pool late at night and break a few school rules, to brave the irritation of wet socks and clothing sticking to me because watching the rain hit Paloma’s skin looks like something divine.

Paloma was meant to be in water, or near it. Watching her deprive herself of it was enough of a heartbreak—but to know she’s swimming now? Healing?

I smile before I mean to.

Seven steps forward again, nudging his soaking wet head against her equally wet sweatpants-clad thigh. He looks up at her like she hung the moon.

I imagine I look at her similarly.

“Did you give my dog a bath?”

Her cheeks pinken and her eyes dart down to my wet dog at her feet.

“Yeah—um, Seven got sick. I don’t know from what, but he threw up on himself and so I cleaned it up and decided to bathe him.” She picks at a tangle of blond hair and peeks up at me from beneath her lashes. “I just wanted to help, since you were sick. And I knew the mess would be . . . hard on you.”