The sun was brutal. Noah's collar was damp, his suitcase still in the car, but he couldn't wait—needed to see the water first. The reeds scraped his forearms as he pushed through, and the lake opened in front of him like a door he'd forgotten how to walk through.
Rowan was waist-deep in the shallows, hauling a tangle of weeds from the old dock. His back was bare, muscles shifting under sun-browned skin, water sliding down the curve of his spine. Noah's throat went dry. The breath he'd been holding came out too sharp, too loud.
Rowan turned.
Their eyes met. Neither spoke. The only sound was water dripping from Rowan's hands, and Noah's heart hammering so loud he was sure it carried across the whole lake.
Rowan's jaw tightened. His hands dropped the weeds. They floated away, dark shapes disappearing into the deeper water.
"You're back." His voice was the same. Low. Careful. Like he was testing whether the words would break something.
"I'm back." Noah's own voice sounded strange to him—thinner, younger. He stepped onto the dock. The wood groaned under his weight. "You look—" He stopped. Everything he wanted to say was too much. "The garden looks good."
Rowan's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. He waded closer, water sloshing against his hips, and stopped at the edge of the dock where the lake lapped at the splintered wood. Up close, his eyes were the same hazel-brown Noah remembered, but there were new lines at the corners. Three years of lines.
"You look different," Rowan said. Not a question. An observation.
"I feel different." Noah's hand moved before he thought about it—reached down. Rowan's wet fingers met his. Water and heat and the scar on Noah's palm pressing into Rowan's callused skin.
"Don't," Rowan said quietly. But he didn't pull away.
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that. Like you're already gone."
Noah's chest ached. "I'm not gone. I'm here." He tightened his grip. "I'm right here."
The lake lapped at the pilings. Somewhere in the house, a door opened and closed. But there was only this—Rowan's wet hand in his, the sun slanting through the trees, and the word yet hanging between them, unspoken but loud as thunder.
Rowan's fingers slipped from Noah's grip. Slowly, deliberately, like he was prying himself loose from something that would hurt worse the longer he held on. Water slid between them, cool and quick. Noah's hand hung in the air a moment too long before he let it fall.
"You should go inside." Rowan's voice was flat now, the softness from a moment ago sealed away. He turned back toward the lake, reaching for another tangle of weeds. "Your mother's been waiting."
"Rowan."
His name stopped him. Rowan's shoulders went tight, hands still submerged, but he didn't turn around.
"I'm not going anywhere," Noah said. The words came out rougher than he meant. He stepped closer to the edge of the dock, the wood creaking under his weight. "I came back. I'm here."
Rowan let out a breath—long, slow, like he was counting to ten inside his head. "For how long?"
The question landed hard. Noah didn't have an answer. Not one that would hold.
"I don't know," he admitted. Honest because he couldn't be anything else. "But I'm here right now."
Rowan finally looked over his shoulder. His eyes were darker in the fading light, the hazel swallowed by shadow. "Right now isn't enough." His jaw worked. "It never has been."
He pulled another weed from the water, the motion sharp, and tossed it onto the bank. Then he waded past the dock, deeper into the lake, water climbing to his chest, to his shoulders, until the line between them grew wider and wider.
Noah's fingers found the buttons of his linen shirt. He didn't look down—kept his eyes on the dark shape of Rowan's head moving further out, a ripple cutting the copper surface of the lake. The shirt dropped onto the dock. His hands went to his belt, the button of his pants. He stepped out of them and stood in his shorts, the evening air cool against his suddenly exposed skin.
He stepped off the edge. The water climbed his shins, his thighs, wrapped around his waist like a second skin. Mud squelched between his toes, soft and cold, the lake bed sloping gently under his feet. He pushed forward until the water reached his chest, then dove.
When he surfaced, Rowan had stopped. He stood with his back to Noah, shoulders dark against the fading sky, water lapping at his collarbone. Noah's feet found the bottom again. He rose, dripping, a few feet away.
Rowan didn't turn around. "That was stupid."
"Probably." Noah wiped water from his eyes. "I've done stupider."
"In front of my mother?"
"Your mother loves me."
Rowan's shoulders tightened. "She doesn't know you."
The words hung between them, heavier than the water. Noah closed the distance. One step. Two. The lake floor shifted under him, and then he was close enough to see the tension in Rowan's neck, the way his hands hung loose at his sides—not relaxed, but waiting.
"I'm not asking her to." Noah's voice came out quiet. He reached out, his fingertips brushing the back of Rowan's arm. The skin was cool, slick with lake water, and Rowan flinched like he'd been burned. But he didn't move away. "I'm asking you."
Rowan turned. His face was close—too close—close enough that Noah could see the way his jaw worked, the muscle jumping in his cheek. The hazel of his eyes was almost black in the dying light, and there was something raw there, something that looked almost like grief.
"You don't get to do this." Rowan's voice broke on the last word. He swallowed. "You don't get to show up and—" He stopped. Shook his head. "I was done. I was fine."
"You're a bad liar." Noah's hand found Rowan's under the water. Their fingers threaded together, the scar on Noah's palm pressing into callused skin. "I'm not leaving."
Rowan's breath came out shaky. "You'll have to."
"Then I'll come back."
"Noah." His name sounded different in the dark. Softer, but edged with something sharp. "You can't promise that."
Noah didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, he held tighter, the water lapping at their chins, the first stars pricking through the violet sky above them. The house was a distant glow through the trees. A door opened and closed. Someone called a name—Noah's name—but neither of them moved.
They stood there in the dark water, hands locked, the impossible distance between them shrinking to nothing and stretching to miles, all at once.