Page 103 of Rush

I splash him, but he just circles me like a smug-eyed shark, grinning wide.

“El—what makes you happy?”

The question catches me off guard.

No one’s ever asked me that before. Not like this. Not while I’m half-floating, naked.

“I’m easy,” I say, floating backward lazily. “Food. Books. Poetry. Writing music. Singing. The beach.” I glance at him. “Sex with you.”

He barks a laugh and splashes water straight at my face. “Definitely easy.”

I wipe water from my eyes and smile. “What about you? What makesyouhappy?”

He pauses for a moment before he answering, “Sex with…you.” He chuckles, then adds, “Being with my family. Friends. Food, for sure. Helping people. Whenever we set up new communities in underdeveloped places, and I see the change—that’s a good feeling.”

The work he does for people, the lives he touches. It stirs something low in my stomach.

“So you’re actually a superhero.” I raise a brow. “Meanwhile, I’m over here thrilled at the idea of a burger and a cold beer by the beach.”

He grins, boyish and golden. “Well, that doesn’t sound half bad either.”

“If you weren’t saving the world, what would you do?”

“I think I’d get my pilot’s license. Flying’s always fascinated me. The mechanics, the freedom, how planes work…”

Before I can ask more, he reaches for me, pulling me into him. My legs wrap around his waist, water sloshing between us.

He’s soaked and warm and solid beneath my thighs.

“What about you, Songbird? If you weren’t singing, what do you think you’d be doing?”

“Travel,” I say, my breath catching. “I’ve never really been anywhere outside Australia and the States.”

I don’t bring up Sweden. The memories hurt too much to let them intrude on this little bubble.

“I want to camp under the stars in the Valley of the Moon in Jordan. Wander through the lavender fields of Provence. See the glaciers in Iceland.”

I pause, the last one settling a little deeper in my chest.

“And then…sit on a beach in the Philippines with a few beers.”

His eyes soften. “I love the Philippines.”

“You’ve been?”

“Yeah. We worked on resettlement programs in Manila a few years ago. But I’d love to see more of it.

“Maybe one day,” he says, voice low. “We could go together.”

And the thought of Manila, not just in my head but beneath my feet, of being there—maybe with him.

The weight of his suggestion terrifies me. When my mom got sick, we lived day by day, waiting for the other shoe to inevitably drop. To even let myself imagine a future beyond our arrangement—I refuse to indulge it.

“Maybe, but you have to catch me first.” I push off him and duck beneath the surface, my heartbeat echoing in my ears. I swim to the edge and come up laughing, flipping my hair back.

He chases me.

I kick at him, half-hearted. He grabs my waist again and spins me.