10
I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM I HATED HIM MONTHS AGO
KRUZ
I settleinto one of Ezra’s oversized sweaters, the soft fabric brushing against my bare thighs. It smells like him, and I try to ignore how much I love the scent of it, but I can’t help but cover my fist with the sleeve and nonchalantly bring it to my nose and inhale… probably way more often than is acceptable, as if I should be doing that at all.
My wet hair clings to my shoulders, dripping cool beads of water down my back, and I groan at the state of it—an absolute disaster. My curls need way more attention than the basic shampoo and conditioner Ezra grabbed, but I can’t exactly blame him. We were a little preoccupied withnot dyingwhen we got here. Given the choice between unruly curls and a coffin, I’ll take the frizz.
It’s not like I have many options as far as clothing goes—he didn’t exactly think to grab me a wardrobe either before whisking me off to this secluded island.
I don’t want to admit to myself how much I actuallylikewearing his clothes, and I definitely wouldn’t ever admit it tohim.
Theveryfew things he brought for me are either filthy or soaked.
Ezra rigged a bucket with a hand-cranked agitator he found in the caretaker’s storage shed, and we hang everything on a line stretched across the living room. The fire roaring in the hearth dries our clothes quicker than the freezing wind outside ever could.
It’s primitive, sure, but it works. Right now, my last pair of leggings and a sweater sway gently on the line, with Ezra’s black hoodie hanging in the middle. The sight of our clothes together does something weird to me—something soft and unsettling.
Like we’re just two people sharing a life, drying laundry on a quiet evening instead of whatever this actually is.
My fingers trail over the sleeve of his hoodie as I step past, I’m assaulted by memories. Ezra peeling off his soaked button-down after we got caught in a storm one night, grumbling about how Ihadto take the scenic route back. Then, the way his hands gripped my waist when we slipped into the pool at that hotel, our clothes forgotten on the tiles, sticking to our damp skin when we finally stumbled back to bed.
I shake off the thought, turning away from the line. That was another lifetime. And we’re notthosepeople anymore.
He has two styles: sexy librarian in a cable knit sweater or grey sweatpants and hoodies.
I haven’t yet decided which one I like more.
His tattoos peeking out from beneath his collar make anything he wears way too attractive.
Ugh.
Dinner is quiet at first, just the sound of forks scraping plates and the occasional crackle of the fire. Ezra made rice and beans tonight, and even though we’ve had the same meal multiple times because of our lack of options here, it’s surprisingly really good.
We eat together like this every night. There’s not much room here in the cabin for either one of us to stay away from the other. I have a feeling he wouldn’t let me stray too far, regardless.
The cabin feels smaller tonight, moreintimate, and I can’t decide if it’s comforting or suffocating.
I’m sure it’s because we nearly fucked, and the thought of it makes my skin heat and my stomach flip.
Ezra sits across from me, the glow from the candles in the middle of the table casting soft shadows over his face, making his features even more pronounced.
Maybe it’s the silence stretching between us. Maybe it’s the way his knee keeps bumping against mine under the table, the way neither of us moves away. The tension that’s been lingering since we got here hasn’t faded. It just sits between us, quiet and impatient, waiting for one of us to give in.
His fingers drum idly against the edge of his plate, and then, without preamble, he looks up at me. “Wanna play truth or dare?” His tone is light, but his gaze is heavy.
I raise an eyebrow. I know how this goes. “What are we, twelve?”
He leans back in his chair, his lips twitching into a smirk. “What, afraid?”
Every time he smirks, I lose IQ points. Pretty soon, I’ll be too stupid to realize how dangerous he is. “Oh, please. I’m notafraid.”
I’m so afraid.
“Then prove it,” he challenges, taunting.
It should be easy to hold on to my anger, to remember the lines he crossed, the life he ripped me away from. But out here, surrounded by nothing but the sea and his secrets spilling faster than sand between my fingers, my reasons for hating him feel like they’re crumbling away.
