A strong arm wrapped around her, yanking her up, and Rosie broke the surface with a desperate gasp. Air burned through her lungs as she coughed violently, water spilling from her lips in ragged heaves.

  Luca's voice cut through the haze of panic, sharp and unrelenting. "You didn't think to tell me you couldn't swim?"

  Still sputtering, Rosie shot him an incredulous look through watery eyes.

  "I thought I could!" she choked out, her voice raw. Then, with a wince, she muttered, "Kind of." Even to her own ears, it sounded ridiculous.

  "Kind of?" Luca echoed, his brow furrowing as his head shook in disbelief.

  She felt the frustration radiating off him, thrumming through the chest pressed against her back. And then, with startling clarity, she realized—he was trembling. Not just from the exertion of keeping them both afloat, but from something deeper. Anger.

  She had pushed him the day before, crossed boundaries, tested his patience—but never had she seen him shaken.

  "You either know how to swim, or you don't," he said, his voice tight, edged with a displeasure she had no defense against.

  Another round of coughs wracked her body, cutting off her retort before it could form.

  Exhausted, she let her head fall against his shoulder, her wet hair clinging to his skin. The fight drained out of her, leaving only ragged breaths and the unsteady rhythm of her heartbeat.

  The water swirled around them as Luca kept them afloat, his legs scissoring beneath them while hers hung limply. He had the strength for two, his grip unwavering, even as the rigid tension in his body began to ebb.

  "My father taught me," she murmured, voice distant, gaze averted. "When I was young."

  Had she dared to meet his eyes, she might have been startled by the warmth lingering there.

  Luca was silent for a beat. His breathing steadied, his hold shifting—not loosening, but adjusting. Molding her against him. His chest pressed more firmly to her back, the rise and fall of it brushing against her shoulder blades as their bodies moved with the water.

  Finally, he sighed, the sharpness in his voice softening. "Alright."

  Another breath, another pause. Then, low and certain—

  "We'll just have to make your body remember, then."

  Without waiting for a response, Luca guided her toward shallower water. The cool waves lapped at her chest as they drifted closer to shore, each step bringing a little more stability beneath her feet.

  When they reached a depth where her toes could curl into the lakebed, he slowed. His grip loosened—just a fraction, lingering for the briefest moment before finally letting go.

  The absence of his touch was immediate, jarring. Even with solid ground beneath her, she felt untethered.

  "Okay." His voice had settled now, steadier. "First, we'll work on floating. Take a deep breath—biggest one you can—and lean back."

  Rosie hesitated. Were they really doing this?

  Her heart pounded against her ribs as doubt coiled tight in her chest. There had to be an easier way—something safer. Maybe practicing on dry land first? She shot a glance toward the shore, ready to suggest exactly that, but the look on Luca's face stopped her.

  Firm. Unyielding. But not unkind. There would be no getting out of this. Not until she learned how to move through the water without drowning herself.

  Swallowing against the lump of reluctance in her throat, she inhaled. "Alright." It was barely more than a whisper, meant more for herself than him.

  She dug her toes into the soft, silty bottom, trying to find some last shred of stability before forcing her body to relax. With a shaky breath, she filled her lungs, the tightness in her chest pressing outward as she leaned back.

  The water swallowed her ears in an instant, muting the world, amplifying the hollow rush of her own breath. Instinct screamed at her to fight it—her arms flailed for balance, her muscles stiffened.

  A hand pressed against the small of her back. Steady. Sure. Another cradled the back of her head, tilting her slightly upward.

  "Pull your shoulders back," Luca instructed, his voice slipping through the barrier of sound like a tether. "Bend your knees slightly. You have to keep your body flat, like a plank."

  Heat flared beneath her skin despite the chill of the lake. The third time this man has had his hands on her.

  If Rowan were here, Luca's head would already be on a spike.

  The thought made her shiver. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the image away, focusing instead on keeping her chest out, on trying to trust the water. Was it working? The pressure of Luca's hands told her she'd still be sinking without him.

  "Good. That's better."

  Still, she wasn't floating. Not really.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "When I was learning, I used to imagine a string pulling my belly toward the sky."

  Rosie tried to picture it—an invisible thread tugging at her core, lifting her. The thought was strange. It felt unnatural to expose her scarred stomach like this, her ugly claim laid bare, to let go.

  But for once, she didn't mind.

  How long had it been since she last swam? A decade, at least. But something about the sensation of water sliding over her body stirred something deep in her memory. She had once loved this. She wanted to feel that again.

  "Good."

  Luca's voice pulled her from the thought, grounding her.

  She opened her eyes, blinking up at the sky, realizing only now the cool weight of the water pressing against her lower back.

  A breathless laugh escaped her, unsteady but light. "I'm floating." On her own.

  "Yeah, you are."

  His lips quirked, the smallest ghost of a smile, and for the first time, the water didn't feel like something she had to fight.

  The victory felt small, but it was a start. Time slipped away as Luca guided her through the basics—teaching her how to stay afloat while standing, how to paddle with purpose.

  "Don't tense up," he'd say, his fingers pressing against the nape of her neck.

  "Relax your arms, let them float," he'd remind her when frustration tightened her muscles. "Like this," he'd murmur, his hands skimming over her forearms, guiding her to make herself light as a feather.

  "Kick your legs," he'd order as she fought against the water. "Just a little," he'd add when she overexerted herself, his grip steadying her, keeping her from exhausting herself too soon.

  "You're not drowning, Rosie." The reassurance was quiet, firm.

  But beneath his words, she heard something deeper. I will not let you drown. His hands on her waist echoed that promise more than his voice ever could.

  Sometimes, it was Luca's voice guiding her forward. Other times, it was the familiar warmth of her father's, still clear in her memory.

  "Trust yourself, Rose," he'd murmur, a whisper from the past that made her breath catch. The memory was so vivid that, for a moment, she almost mistook Luca's hand on her stomach for the soft, patient touch of her father.

  "Lift your chest a little more, or you'll sink." She did, and for the first time, she glided through the water with ease, smiling at the sensation.

  For those fleeting moments, she was a child again—safe in her father's arms, learning to swim in a world that still felt whole. She missed those days. The days when her greatest worry was not hiding too much in the shadows, not shrinking away from the world around her. She missed the quiet warmth of her mother's kindness, the unshakable security of her father, the playful complicity of her brother. When had that slipped through her fingers? When had she stopped being their little girl?

  "Keep your head above water, unless you want to swallow the whole lake." Too late—her father's voice teased in her memory as water filled her throat. She coughed, spluttering, but a grin broke through.

  "You're getting it, Rose," he would have said.

  "You're getting it, Rosie."

  Luca's voice pulled her back to the present.

  Her limbs, once stiff and clumsy from the icy shock, now moved with intent. The cold no longer felt like needles against her skin. The weak flutter of her legs had become a steady, controlled kick, pushing back against the current. Her arms, awkward at first, now cut through the water with purpose, strong and sure.

  And her sinking body was no longer sinking at all. It was moving.

  She looked at Luca then, his face just inches from hers, his gaze steady—focused. There was a softness to it, a quiet reassurance that steadied her, yet beneath it lay an intensity she couldn't quite unravel. It made her breath catch, her heart stutter.

  A small, unsteady smile tugged at her lips.

  For the first time in a long time, something felt real.

  By the time they reached the shore, Rosie was trembling so violently that her teeth clattered together, sharp bursts of sound she couldn't suppress. She swore they might crack under the pressure.

  "Here," Luca said, stepping close and draping a towel around her shoulders with a swiftness that caught her off guard. She hadn't even noticed him grab it.

  "Thanks," she murmured, pulling the towel tighter around herself. Its rough fabric did little to chase away the cold, but its warmth was still a small comfort.

  He handed her a dry shirt, holding it out without a word. She hesitated for a beat, then took it. Turning her back to him, she pulled the shirt over her head and quickly unclasped her bra from beneath it before slipping it off.

  They started walking, their steps slow and aimless. The only sounds were the squelch of their shoes in the moist earth and the distant lap of water against the rocks.

  Rosie tilted her head up to the sky, squinting against the sun that had finally burned through the lingering morning fog. The warmth in the air felt promising, though it was muted by the clinging cold of her damp hair. She clutched the towel tighter around herself, trying to chase away the lingering chill.

  "You miss them?" Luca's voice broke the quiet with the kind of suddenness that made her stumble slightly. She blinked, confused for a moment, before her thoughts caught up.

  Her stomach twisted as realization sank in. Oh. Her parents.

  "I miss the memories," she shrugged, forcing a neutral expression. "But they're strangers now." Her voice wavered, despite her best efforts to sound indifferent.

  Luca fell silent for a beat. She wasn't sure if he was weighing his words or debating whether to speak them at all. When he finally did, his voice was so soft it nearly blended with the wind. "We could find them for you."

  Rosie's fingers dug into the fabric of the towel, her knuckles whitening. She shook her head sharply, her hair brushing against her flushed cheeks. "They're far away," she said, her voice brittle. "It's better this way."

  Her pace quickened for a moment before she caught herself, slowing down again as she added, "I don't want them tangled in this mess."

  Her gaze was fixed on the ground ahead, but she could feel Luca's eyes on her. Still, he didn't press further, and for that, she was grateful.

  As the silence stretched, Rosie stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He walked beside her with a quiet, assured ease—his damp hair tousled by the breeze, shirt clinging to his chest in a way that made her quickly avert her gaze. There was something about him—steady, unyielding—that unsettled her. He was the type of person who never seemed to lose control.

  She gnawed on her lower lip, debating whether to speak. Letting him carry the weight of the conversation felt unfair, but the words stuck in her throat, hesitant. Finally, she exhaled, forcing them out—softer than she intended, barely more than a whisper.

  "Are you close to yours?"

  Luca's steps faltered for the briefest moment, a hiccup in his stride so subtle she might not have noticed if she hadn't been watching. His jaw tightened, his gaze fixed ahead.

  "My parents?"

  Rosie nodded, her gaze dropping back to the ground again.

  "They're gone," he said simply after a pause.

  "Oh," Rosie whispered, instantly regretting the question. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

  "It's alright," Luca interrupted, his voice gentler now. "It was years ago. I've made my peace with it."

  Rosie wanted to say something, but she knew better. Her parents might not be buried six feet underground, but they were lost to her all the same. Grief could be suppressed, smothered under routine and distraction, but it never truly died. It lingered, quiet and cruel, waiting for the moment to resurface, for the memories to sting—and they always will.

  So peace? There was none—only the illusion of it.

  For whom was he pretending—himself or her? It didn't matter. A lie, even a gentle one, was still a lie.