Page 76 of Head Under Water

“I need something.”

I look back. His eyes wait for mine, heavy and defenseless.

He lifts his arm, reaching across the mattress. His hand extends, fingers outstretched, into the empty space between us. “Stay.”

Something cracks in my chest, splits open.

Against every part of my better judgment, I cross the space separating us and slip into his bed. Into his arms. The mattress dips under the shared weight of our exhaustion.

He wraps me in his blanket, in him, and tucks his chin against the top of my head. Within seconds, his breathing evens out, brushing against my hair. I focus on the rhythm of it with all I can.

His arms tighten around me slightly, enough that I feel nothing but him. My cheek rests against his chest, and I can hear his steady heartbeat under my ear.

Minutes pass, and everything else starts to fade away. We’re safe here in our cocoon. His thumb brushes small, absent-minded circles over my shoulder blade, and my hand drifts over his side, hugging myself tighter against him.

We’ve never been good with words, but our bodies say what we cannot. Grief. Worry. Relief. A painful tenderness that I still can’t put a name to. Something reserved only for Will.

He strokes my back, and I nuzzle my face into his neck, breathing in the familiar scent—cool, deep, dangerous. Ocean and driftwood I’m desperately clinging to. My eyes grow heavy.

The rise and fall of his chest steadily slows, a quiet reassurance amid chaos. Every exhale I make is mirrored in him, each tiny brush of fingers a quiet conversation.

We are here. We are breathing. For now, we are safe.

Minutes later, I’m falling asleep too. We cling to each other like we’re tethering ourselves to this moment in time, treading water in the dark and terrified that when we wake, everything will be different.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

PRESENT DAY

When I wake, the sun is dipping low, painting the unfamiliar room with streaks of golds and oranges. For a moment I don’t remember where I am, until the weight pressing against my back reminds me.

Will.

His arm is draped across my waist, his body curled around mine from behind. I can feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, steady and warm.

Panic slices through my ribcage like a knife.

What are we doing?

I lie as still as possible, careful not to wake him. I try to tell myself this doesn’t mean anything, that me being here—him asking me to stay—was just exhaustion. Fear.

We were both practically delirious.

I was the one who happened to be here. That’s it.

I slide out from under him just enough to grab my phone from my pocket and check the time. It’s just after six.

We’ve been asleep for hours, but there are no missed calls. The worst hasn’t happened. It won’t.

I close my eyes and draw in a shallow breath. Outside, the world keeps turning, unchanged, but in here, everything feels different.

Behind me, Will stirs. He inhales deeply, rubbing his hand down his face. I glance over. Right now, with messy hair and bright blue eyes peeking out from behind dark lashes, he looks impossibly human—intense and soft all at once.

I want to run. The urge hits me like lightning, the desire to vanish into the safety of being alone. Protecting my heart.

And yet, I also want to lean back, to feel the steady weight of him holding me, to see if his arms tighten. If he asks me, even without words, to stay for longer.

I swallow the conflict down. Sleep, fear, and relief tangle together, making every thought slow and sharp all at once.