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Droplets fall like rain from my wet body across his shorts and hoodie. A rattling breath puffs from my lips before I press them to his, arms straining. He dips his chin so he can meet my kiss, lips soft and trembling in time with my racing heart.
He never releases his grip on the pool ledge.
I don’t dare press further, only releasing him when my arms give out and I sink back into the water beneath him.
Bennett’s eyes stay closed for a moment, head tipped, as if he’s savoring the taste—of chlorine and peach lip balm and me. When he opens them, blue crashing down on me like a wave, there’s something new.
Do you see me? Just me, as I am?
No one has before.
An image stirs of him surrounding me, holding me to his chest as he woke me from my nightmare. His hands combing my hair back over and over, little fretting touches.
Maybe he would be okay. Maybe he would be good to me. Maybe he’s safe.
“I’m ready to get out now.”
“Okay,” he says. His fingers dance across his lips for a moment longer and he hesitates before standing and slipping his sandals back on, unrolling the towel at his side while I hoist myself up and out.
He wraps me in it, holding me closer than he might’ve before. It’s possessive and comforting. I want to stay here.
My eyes close and I nuzzle into him a little before he lets me go.
I reach for his hand. He takes it. We walk quietly back to the elevators. Gooseflesh ripples across my skin, but I’m not cold—I’m . . . everything else. Happy, scared, excited, so full up that I’m bubbling like a bottle of champagne in anticipation.
Only to plummet into pure anxiety when we arrive back inside my darkened hotel room. Expectations and fear from the past mingle with interest and eagerness for this moment. Does he want to mixes heavily with Will he make me?
“Don’t be an idiot,” my mother slurs, eyes teary. “Men only want one thing from us.”
“I’m not like you,” I snap.
She laughs. “You could be my goddamn twin.”
Bennett releases my hand. I fidget in the doorway while he slides off his shoes and sets them by the door.
“I’m gonna shower,” I blurt, tripping over my own feet to get into the bathroom and shut the door.
Washing my hair calms me, as does the heat of the water. I take my time before dressing in soft pajama pants and another oversized shirt.
I exit shyly, eyeing where he sits on the bed with his back to the headboard. He’s blushing already, fidgeting with his hands in a way that suddenly calms my lingering anxiety.
“Can I brush your hair?” he asks.
It’s not the question I’m expecting, so I nod before I can think about it too deeply.
When I do, tears rush to my eyes. I turn back to the bathroom and dig through my toiletries bag for my well-loved boar bristle brush. The sweetness of the sentiment . . . no one, not even my mother on a good day, has made that kind of offer.
I manage to pull it all in and hold back my desperation to be cared for in that way, eyes still glistening as I duck my head and walk toward him.
He plays Bon Iver’s “Beach Baby” on his phone and waits for me. I crawl across the hotel bedding and sit tucked between his partially spread legs, handing him my brush.
“No one’s ever—” I cut myself off. The confession feels too raw. “It’s— I’m not tender-headed. So, you don’t have to be careful.”
“I’m gonna be gentle, P.”
The words make me shiver; his voice is deep, his presence a solid wall behind me. He brushes through my hair slowly, careful not to pull. He hums low and soft to the music. The combination of it all has my eyes fluttering closed, and I slump into his warm arms just a bit.
I can handle anxious, timid Bennett. I can handle him when it’s me catering to him. But this Bennett—he’s overwhelming. Gentle and careful and dominant. Taking care of me.
