Page 105 of Pull Me Under

‘Is that a problem?’

‘It’s the opposite of a problem.’

‘What’s the opposite of a problem?’

‘This.’ I kiss her. ‘Definitely this.’

She laughs against my mouth, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders. ‘Jude⁠—’

‘Hmm?’

‘We should probably eat at some point, before malnutrition sets in.’

‘Probably.’

‘And I should shower. I still smell like seawater and diesel.’

‘I like how you smell.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘Probably.’ I’m walking her backwards now, toward the bedroom, and she’s letting me, our step in time, our breaths synchronised. ‘Shower later?’

‘Shower later,’ she agrees.

The bed is still warm when we fall into it.

An hour later – or maybe two, time gets slippery – we’re lying tangled together, the sheets a disaster, the roof still groaning its disapproval overhead.

‘I’m starving,’ Brynn announces. ‘I have eggs. Possibly bread. Definitely tea.’

‘A feast.’

‘Don’t mock my provisions.’

‘I would never.’

She rolls out of bed, magnificently unselfconscious, and pads toward the kitchen. I watch her go – the line of her back, the mess of her hair, the way she moves like she’s comfortable in her own skin. Like she’s never had a moment of doubt about who she is.

She should scare the shit out of me. She doesn’t.

‘Eggs are questionable!’ she calls from the kitchen. ‘But I’m going to risk it!’

‘Your optimism is inspiring!’

‘Shut up and come help!’

I find my jeans, decide the shirt is a lost cause since she’s put it on again, and join her in the kitchen wearing nothing but boxers and the bruises from last night.

She takes one look at me and winces. ‘Christ. You look like you went ten rounds with the Atlantic.’

‘Pretty sure I did.’

‘Sit down. I’ll make tea.’

‘I thought I was helping.’

‘You can help by not dying of hypothermia in my kitchen.’ She pushes me toward a chair. ‘Sit.’