I flip onto my back, staring at the sky as it transitions from charcoal to lavender. My mother used to say you could tell the day's weather by the color of dawn. Lavender meant peace.
“I miss you,” I whisper to the air, words immediately carried away by the breeze.
Diving deep, I hold my breath, suspended in the middle depths of the river. This is part of my training—expanding lung capacity, finding comfort in that burning moment when instinct screams for air but discipline keeps you submerged. I've always found a strange solace in this space between necessity and choice.
My lungs begin to ache, a familiar burn that I lean into rather than fight. Ten more seconds. Nine. Eight.
Something disrupts the water above me—a splash, violent and unexpected. Before I can react, hands grab my shoulders, yanking me upward with desperate strength. My body breaks the surface, and I gasp automatically, disoriented by the sudden change.
“Mia! Jesus Christ!”
Grant's face hovers inches from mine, panic etched into every line. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his t-shirt clinging to his chest—he's fully clothed and completely soaked.
“What are you doing?” I sputter, treading water as I push wet hair from my face.
His breathing is ragged, eyes wild. “You weren't moving. You were just—floating down there. Not swimming. Not moving.” He repeats, a panicked look in his eyes.
Understanding dawns. “I was holding my breath. Training technique.” I study his face, realization hitting me like a physical blow. “Wait—you're in the water.”
Grant seems to notice it too for the first time, his eyes darting around as if suddenly aware of where he is. His face pales.
“You're in the river,” I repeat, softer this time. Holding my hand to his chest, feeling his frantic heartbeat beating in his chest.
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “I thought you were drowning.” Shaking his head “I just—”
The weight of that statement—of what it means for him to be chest-deep in the water he's avoided for eight years—makes my heart stumble. “You got in the water for me.”
“I just reacted,” he says, but we both know it's more than that. Much more.
We're treading water in the middle of the river, his jeans still on, making it probably heavy and hard to move in, yet he's focused entirely on me. Something warm unfurls in my chest.
“I'm sorry I scared you,” I say, reaching out to touch his cheek. “I'm fine. Really.”
His hand covers mine, holding it against his chest. “What were you doing out here so early?” he asks.
The question I've been dreading. I could deflect, give some half-truth about training schedules or enjoying the sunrise. But Grant's eyes, still tinged with residual fear, demand honesty.
“It's the anniversary,” I admit, my voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of water. “Eleven years ago today, my mother drowned.”
His expression shifts from concern to understanding. “Mia...”
“It's okay,” I say quickly. “I'm okay. Being in the water on this day—it's my way of staying connected to her. Sounds crazy, right?”
Instead of responding, Grant pulls me closer, his arms encircling my waist beneath the water. We're floating together now, his legs occasionally brushing mine as we keep ourselves afloat.
“It's not crazy,” he says finally. “After Jake died, I would sit on the porch every evening at sunset because that was his favoritetime of day. I couldn't go near the water, but I could watch the sky turn the same colors he loved.”
I rest my forehead against his, our bodies drifting gently with the current. “We're quite the pair, aren't we? Both haunted by water in completely opposite ways.”
“Yet here we are,” he murmurs, “in it together.”
His choice of words—the implication that we're “together” in any sense—sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool morning water.
“You should probably get out,” I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice neutral as I watch Grant in the water, clothes clinging to his body in a way that should be illegal. “You’re fully dressed, and your boots are probably ruined.”
He looks down slowly, like he’s just now realizing he’s in the river wearing denim and leather. Then he grins.
“Worth it.” Shooting me a wink.
