He wants to know me. Sir. That is not safe behavior.
So I do the only logical thing.
“I’m getting in,” I say.
“Oh, okay,” he says, all patient and sunshine. “You don’t have to rush. We can sit here as long as…”
Too late. I’m already yanking my pullover off in what is probably the least sexy strip in human history. There’s an arm stuck. I almost faceplant. Somewhere in the process I hiccup a tiny squeak that might’ve been a sob or a war cry. Hard to say.
Benji doesn’t laugh. He beams. Like I’m the bravest girl he’s ever seen, and my swimsuit and panic sweat are a fucking ballgown.
He keeps my hands in his as I step forward, toe first, until the water slips up over my feet. It’s cold and liquid and wrong, and I hate it, and…
“You good?” he asks, steady and calm. The human version of a floaty.
“My toe polish shines in the water.” I stare down. “Are you a foot guy?”
He actually laughs. And it’s a real one, low and warm and gorgeous, the kind of sound that could trick a person into believing in good men. “Never really thought about it,” he says, “but you’ve got very nice feet. Tiny. Cute.”
I blush.
What the ever-loving fuck is happening?
I’m the predator here. The siren. The feral menace.
I do not blush.
And yet. Goddammit.
“Maybe it’s because you’re so tall you don’t see many feet,” I say, instantly regretting it.
He laughs again, this time with his whole face. God. His laugh could water crops.
“You’re like a giant angel,” I say before I can stop myself.
Now he blushes again. All pink cheeks and bashful dimples and suddenly I am fighting for my life not to climb him like a palm tree.
“We’ve got about ten minutes until my next client,” he says gently. “Do you want to try another step? No pressure at all.”
I blow out a breath hard enough to fog glass. My knees are buzzing, but not in a bad way. I nod. “Umm… you’ll hold my hand?”
His grip tightens slightly. “Absolutely.”
And the way he says it, no hesitation, no agenda, just absolute makes something inside me crack in a way that feels good. Bad. Terrifying.
So I take another step. Into the water. Toward him.
It kisses up my calves, ghost-cold and too familiar. My body remembers things I didn’t invite it to remember. Chlorine and screams. A mouth full of water. Silence that crackled like thunder in my ears.
Benji doesn’t let go of my hands.
“You’re doing great,” he says, in a tone for a kid learning to ride a bike, or a grown woman trying not to bolt from the memory of being half-dead at seven.
And instead of saying thank you like a normal girl with a functioning emotional regulation system, I blurt, “Do you think lifeguards ever develop, like, PTSD from seeing so many wet kids screaming?”
“Probably,” he says, looking thoughtful. “That’s a lot of energy to be around all day. Especially in summer.”
“And you’re not even judging me for that question?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, looking for the answer he might be hiding.
