The party had loosened behind them, the music unspooling into something slower, the laughter thinning out until it was just scattered voices and the clink of glasses somewhere up the lawn. Ryan didn't look back. He kept his eyes on the worn planks ahead of him, on Marissa's bare feet picking their way over the splintered wood, and he let the distance grow between them and the noise.

She didn't ask where they were going. That was the thing about her, the thing he was starting to learn. She didn't ask questions she already knew the answers to. She just walked beside him, her silk dress catching the harbor breeze, her toes curling against the grain of the dock like she was testing whether it would hold her.

The water lapped against the pilings below, dark and patient. The moon had moved lower, a thin crescent bleeding light across the surface. Ryan shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, felt the worn note still there, the paper soft from folding and unfolding, and he didn't say anything because there wasn't anything to say that wouldn't break the quiet.

"I should probably go home," Marissa said. She didn't sound like she believed it.

He stopped walking. She stopped too, a few steps ahead, and turned to face him. The harbor lights caught her eyes, made them shine in a way that had nothing to do with the moon.

"You said you didn't want to."

"I know." She looked down at her feet, at the way her toes pressed against the sun-warped wood. "I just—" She stopped, shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

It mattered. He could see it in the way she held her shoulders, the way she was already bracing for something. He took a step closer, and the dock creaked under his weight, a low groan that seemed to settle into the water below.

"You can stay," he said. "At the pool house. I meant it."

She looked up at him, and there was something raw in her face, something she was trying to smooth over with a practiced smile that didn't quite land. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough."

The words came out rougher than he meant them to. She held his gaze for a long moment, and he watched her throat move as she swallowed, watched the way her fingers found the hem of her dress, brushing the splinter that was still caught there, not pulling it free.

"Okay," she said. "Okay."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. The dock gave way to the lawn, the grass cool and damp under their feet, and the pool house rose up ahead of them, its sliding door open to the night. The smell of chlorine and damp towels hit him as they crossed the threshold, and he saw her take it in—the small bed pushed against the wall, the stack of books on the floor, the jacket he'd left draped over the chair.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, her silhouette framed by the light from the main house up the lawn. Then she stepped inside, and the door slid shut behind her.

"It's not much," he said.

"It's yours." She said it like that meant something. Like it was the thing that made it worth more than the marble foyer she'd grown up in.

He didn't know what to do with that, so he didn't do anything. He crossed to the bed, sat on the edge of it, and watched her move through the small space, her fingers trailing over the spine of a book, the corner of the desk, the window frame. She was cataloging him, he realized. Learning him the way he'd learned her—through the things she left out in the open.

"You read a lot," she said.

"Sandy's got a library. He keeps giving me stuff."

"Do you like it?"

He shrugged. "It's something to do."

She turned to look at him, and there was a small smile on her face, one that didn't have any performance in it. "You're not very good at accepting compliments, are you?"

"Not a lot of practice."

She crossed the room and sat down next to him on the edge of the bed, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something floral and warm that didn't belong in the chlorine air of the pool house. She didn't say anything. She just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her bare feet barely touching the floor.

The silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt like holding something, like they were both afraid to move and break whatever this was.

"My mom's going to lose it," she said finally. "When she realizes I didn't come home."

"You want to call her?"

"No." She said it too fast, and then softer, "No. I don't want to hear her voice right now."

He didn't push. He'd learned that much—that you couldn't make someone talk about something they weren't ready to say. You just had to be there when they were.

"I used to hide in my closet," Marissa said. "When I was little. When my parents would fight, I'd go in there and sit in the dark and pretend I was somewhere else." She laughed, a small, hollow sound. "I still do that. Sometimes. When it gets bad."

He looked at her, at the way her fingers were twisting in her lap, and he thought about the pool house, about how small it was, about how the walls were thin and the door didn't lock. It wasn't much. But it was his.

"You can hide here," he said. "If you need to."

She looked at him, and her eyes were wet again, but she didn't let the tears fall. She just nodded, and then she leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest, and he felt something in his chest crack open, just a little.

They sat like that for a long time, the night pressing in around them. The main house had gone quiet, the music finally stopped, and all he could hear was her breathing, slow and steady, and the distant sound of water against the shore.

"Tell me something," she said. "Something real."

He thought about it. Thought about Chino, about the flickering fluorescents and the teachers who looked through him, about the boy he'd fought and the head hitting pavement. He didn't want to give her any of that. Didn't want to lay that weight on her when she was already carrying so much.

But she'd asked for something real. And he'd told her he knew enough. So he told her the truth.

"I didn't think I'd make it to eighteen," he said. "Didn't think I'd get out of Chino. I figured I'd end up like my brother—in jail or dead, and nobody would notice either way."

She didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She just pressed a little closer, her hand finding his, her fingers lacing through his scarred ones.

"I'm glad you got out," she said.

He didn't know what to say to that. So he didn't say anything. He just held her hand and let the quiet settle around them.

She shifted, turning to face him, and the movement brought her closer, her knees brushing against his thigh, her face tilted up toward his. The moonlight came through the window, catching the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the way her lips parted just slightly.

"Ryan," she said, and his name sounded different in her mouth, like she was tasting it, like she was trying to decide if it fit.

"Yeah?"

She didn't answer. She just looked at him, and the air changed, thickened, charged with something he couldn't name. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, could feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Her hand came up, slow, like she was giving him time to move away. Her fingers brushed his jaw, traced the line of it, and then her thumb found the corner of his mouth, resting there, light as a breath.

He stopped breathing.

She leaned in, and the dock creaked somewhere in the distance, a low groan that seemed to echo the sound of his own pulse. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips parted, and he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin.

He could feel the faint tremor in her hand, the way her fingers didn't quite hold steady against his jaw. It wasn't nerves—not exactly. It was the same tremor he'd felt in her voice when she'd talked about her father, the same one that ran through her when she talked about the closet, about hiding in the dark. She was afraid of this. Afraid of him. Afraid of what it would mean if she let herself want something that wasn't broken.

He didn't move. He'd learned that much, too—that some things you couldn't rush, that the wrong word at the wrong moment could send someone scattering like birds off a wire. So he stayed still, his hands resting on his thighs, his breath shallow in his chest, and he let her decide.

The moonlight caught the line of her collarbone, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath. She was close enough that he could see the tiny scar on her chin, a pale crescent he'd never noticed before, and he wondered how she'd gotten it. Wondered if it was from falling off a bike, or a fight with Kaitlin, or something else entirely, something she didn't talk about.

Her thumb moved, just a fraction, tracing the corner of his mouth like she was memorizing the shape of it. He felt the callus on her fingertip, the one from years of tennis, and it was such a small thing, such a specific thing, that it made the moment feel unbearably real.

"I've never done this before," she whispered. "Not like this. Not with someone who actually—" She stopped, her eyes searching his face. "Someone who actually sees me."

He didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to tell her that she was the first person in years who'd made him feel like he wasn't invisible, like he wasn't just the kid from Chino who'd fucked up one too many times. So he just let his hand come up, slow, and cover hers where it rested against his cheek.

Her breath caught. He felt it, the way her whole body went still, the way her eyes widened just slightly. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, over the small scar he found there, and he watched her watch him, watched the way her lips parted again, soft and waiting.

"You don't have to be brave with me," he said. "Not tonight."

Something shifted in her face. Something raw and unguarded that he'd only caught glimpses of before, in the dark of the dock, in the quiet of the pool house. She leaned in, and he could feel the heat of her body through the thin silk of her dress, could smell the floral warmth of her perfume mixing with the chlorine and the salt.

Her forehead came to rest against his, her breath warm on his lips. She didn't close the distance. She just hovered there, trembling, like she was waiting for him to be the one to fall.

"Ryan," she breathed, and his name was a question this time, a plea, something she was offering up to him in the dark.

He didn't answer with words. He let his hand slide from hers, let his fingers find the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up toward his. The moonlight caught her eyes, made them shine, and he could see the fear there, the want, the hope she was trying so hard to keep contained.

He leaned in, and the dock creaked somewhere in the distance, a low groan that seemed to echo the sound of his own pulse. Her lips were a breath away, soft and parted, and he could feel the heat of her, the trembling of her, the way she was holding herself perfectly still, waiting.

He stopped. Right there, at the edge of it, with her breath on his mouth and her hand on his jaw, he stopped.

"You sure?" he asked, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. "About this. About staying."

She didn't answer. She just closed the distance.