22. 2
The way he leans into each stroke, every muscle of his body working with practiced ease.
He’s practically flying through the water, while I’m still trying not to tip us over.
I can feel the boat rocking slightly with my every move, and my stomach twists at the thought of falling into the cold, unforgiving water.
And still, Bishop doesn’t hassle me.
He just keeps rowing, his strokes steady, effortless, as if he knows exactly how this is going to play out.
His calmness just makes everything worse.
The guy thrives on control, and he’s in his element.
Meanwhile, I’m barely hanging on.
It doesn’t take long before we reach the first buoy.
I focus on it, reaching out to grab the object left for us to retrieve.
I easily untie it and place it inside our vessel.
As I twist to drop it into the boat, I feel it rock more than it should.
My heart skips a beat, but I catch myself just in time.
And that’s when I notice.
Bishop’s not rowing anymore.
He’s just sitting there.
Not even holding the oars.
He’s resting them against the side of the boat, looking completely unfazed.
His arms are crossed casually over his chest, his eyes focused on the horizon like we’re just out for a leisurely ride.
“What are you doing? Go!” I snap, panic creeping into my voice as I realize everyone else is starting to catch up.
Bishop tilts his head, a lazy grin playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m exhausted,” he says, stretching his arms dramatically.
“You take the lead on the rowing.”
I blink at him, stunned.
“You’re literally on the rowing team. Why would I—”
He shrugs, completely unbothered.
“Something about knowingly being in a boat with a thief just makes me feel... unmotivated.”
I stare at him, jaw tightening.
“You seriously dragged me into this, set us up to be partners, just to be petty?”
He feigns innocence, holding up his hands.
“Whoa—‘petty’ is such a strong word. I prefer... consequence-driven.”
My stomach twists, a growl of frustration rising up my throat.
I don’t know what’s worse—his smugness, or the fact that he’s clearly enjoying this.
I stare at him, stunned, as the other boats draw closer.
The other students are catching up fast, their boats gaining on ours.
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the way my stomach churns.
“You can’t just sit there,” I mutter, frustration bubbling over.
“We’re going to lose if you don’t help!”
I glance back at him, then the other boats, then him, my patience wearing thin.
“Do you seriously not care if we win?” I ask, but he just shrugs.
He doesn’t touch the oars, doesn’t shout instructions, doesn’t tell me what to do.
He just waits. It’s like this is a different game to him.
“Are you really not going to help? Take the oars? Give me instructions? Something?” I snap, my frustration growing by the second.
He shrugs, looking completely bored.
“I’m tired,” he points out, his voice annoyingly calm.
“You do it. I’ll instruct.”
Now he decides he’s tired?
Now he decides he doesn’t care about taking control?
“So you’re not going to help beyond that?” I ask, the words escaping before I can stop them.
I can feel my pulse quickening as the other boats speed away, leaving us behind.
“Nope.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my anger rising.
It’s infuriating. Everyone else is moving ahead, and here I am, stuck with him, helpless.
He casually rubs a nonexistent speck of lint off his pants, completely unfazed by my mounting frustration.
“I’ve decided to try something new,” he says, and the smug bastard knows exactly how this is going to play out.
He’s fully aware of how much I’m struggling, how badly I want him to take control, to make this easier for me.
But he’s not going to.
And that only makes me angrier.
“Bishop.” I bite out, trying to keep my temper in check.
“Yes?” Bishop’s smirk widens.
“You know how much I like it when you say my name, especially when there’s a hint of fear in your voice. Careful, I might just take advantage, troublemaker.” He winks.
I gawk. This guy can’t be serious right now.
I’m terrified, and all he can do is make remarks that somehow make me feel hotter than I should, considering our current predicament.
“I’d rather drown,” I grit out, not entirely sure I even believe myself at this point.
But still…ugh! Why does he have to be like this?
“Go ahead then,” he says nonchalantly, splashing a bit of water in my direction.
I shoot him a glare, still not moving from our spot.
I glance off in the distance and spot the other students closing in on the second buoy, their boats cutting through the water with steady rhythm.
Bishop leans back slightly behind me, just enough for his voice to curl around my ear, his eyes glinting with that maddeningly knowing look.
“Well, I don’t mind you being stuck with me a little longer, but I’m starting to think you might want to actually do something—unless you’re enjoying the view.” I reluctantly grab the oars, trying to ignore the way my palms are already starting to sweat.
The last thing I want is to fall into the water.
While rowing. By myself.
My first stroke is awkward, and the boat jerks sideways, almost tipping over.
I bite my lip, frustrated with myself.
My hands feel cold against the wood, but I can’t stop now.
I push again, the boat moving slowly through the water, and I feel like I’m getting nowhere.
Bishop doesn’t move to help, just watching me with that calm, smug look in his eyes.
His lack of reaction makes me angrier.
The way he’s just sitting there, letting me struggle, enjoying this in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Will you at least make yourself somewhat helpful and attempt to guide me?” I snap, glaring over my shoulder at him.
“Not just sit there like an idiot.”
“Would an idiot do this?” Bishop asks, sitting up and purposefully rocking the boat enough to make my hands stutter on the oars and momentarily lose my rhythm—if you could even call it that.
“I mean, an idiot would probably have tipped the boat by now, but here we are, still floating. Funny how that works.”
The fact that he’s right only makes me even more pissed.
I shove the oars into the water again, this time with a little more force, but the action is jerkier than before as the other students race back around the isolated bend where the third buoy is located.
The boat shifts again, the waves a bit rougher this far out, and it catches me off guard enough to send a wave of water slapping over one side of the boat.
He laughs, his tone light.
“You know, you might want to try a little harder, unless you’re really trying to sink us.”
The laugh hits me like a slap, and for a moment, I can’t even process his words.
My lungs still as the boat tilts again, the water sloshing too close for comfort.
I grip the oars even tighter, but my hands are starting to feel numb.
My breath quickens. Focus, Alex.
Just focus .
“Can you shut up for a second?” I snap, trying to mask the panic rising in my chest. It doesn’t work.
My pulse is pounding in my ears.
I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore, and the cold water splashing against the sides of the boat makes it worse.
Bishop’s smile fades, and I see something shift in his eyes.
He doesn’t respond immediately.
For a moment, all I hear is the sound of the water lapping against the boat.
We’re already so close, his knees practically bracketing mine, but then he shifts forward, his front pressing lightly against my back—deliberate, unhurried.
Then, in a tone that’s different, softer, he says, “Come here.”
What?
He wants me to go where exactly?
We’re stuck out here and I…
I…
What does that even mean— come here ?
I’m already practically in his lap.
There’s nowhere else to go, but the way he says it makes my pulse trip anyway.
I hesitate, my eyes darting between him and the open water.
Then he shifts again, his hands finding my hips—gentle, firm—as if guiding me the final inch into place.
“Your fine,” he murmurs, his voice low.
“I’ve got you.”
I blink, my stomach flipping.
I don’t know what’s worse—the idea of sitting this close to him or the idea of staying where I am, struggling to row and feeling the boat teeter dangerously with every wave.
But... I don’t know what else to do.
I glance over my shoulder.
The other teams are gone, their boats distant dots on the water.
We’re alone now—isolated.
The panic rises in my chest again, tighter this time.
Bishop watches me, his gaze steady—but there’s something different in it now.
It’s not the usual cocky gleam.
There’s no teasing edge.
Instead, there’s a quiet calm, like he’s waiting for me to trust him.
With a deep breath, I push my hesitation aside.
I shift slightly, inching back closer than we already were.
His legs were already surrounding mine, but this time, there’s no rough tug like when we first got in.
Before, it felt possessive, almost like a claim.
But now? This feels different—protective, even.
As I settle back into him, the boat shifts under our combined weight, rocking just slightly.
The sound of the waves grows louder in my ears, the cold water sloshing against the sides, making my stomach flip.
“Relax,” Bishop says, his voice low and calm, soothing even.
But there’s no mockery in it.
“We’re fine. I won’t let us tip, alright? Just breathe.”
I don’t know why his words make my heart slow, but they do.
There’s something in his voice—something genuine that I didn’t expect.
For a second, the waves don’t feel as threatening, the boat doesn’t feel as unstable.
But then the boat shifts again, and I realize just how far out we are.
I look back, half expecting to see the shore getting close.
But there’s nothing but water.
Fresh panic surges through me.
My pulse quickens as the thought of being so far from land hits me all at once.
I feel my chest tighten, my breaths coming too quickly, too shallow.
This is ridiculous. Why am I freaking out like this?
But I can’t stop it.
“Hey,” Bishop says again, his tone still calm but a little firmer this time.
“Trust me.”
I whip my head around to look at him, my breath catching in my throat.
“Trust you?” I repeat, incredulous.
“Are you serious right now?”
His expression doesn’t change, that slightest shift still in his eyes.
His hand flattens to my stomach, steadying me as the boat rocks again from my outburst. I freeze, my heart stuttering as his fingers slowly start to graze the fabric at the top of my skirt, making my pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.
I should be terrified, should pull away, but I don’t.
His touch is warm, steady, almost…
comforting. Despite the panic still clawing at my chest, something about the way he’s holding me, so deliberately gentle, starts to quiet the storm inside me.
“We’re okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and reassuring, like he’s trying to carve a space of calm between us.
His hand moves, sliding lower down my thigh, and my breath catches—not from the fear of falling into the water anymore, but from something else.
I feel it pull at me, tugging me away from the chaos in my mind, though I don’t fully realize what he’s doing.
I’m too focused on trying to steady my breath, to stop the racing of my heart.
The panic’s still there, but it’s beginning to feel distant, muffled somehow, like his touch is blocking it out.
His hand moves beneath my skirt, his fingers tracing a smooth line against my skin.
The sensation is electric, but it’s not enough to distract me from the sheer panic rising in my chest. My back is still pressed firmly to his front, and every shift of the boat seems to make my anxiety worse.
“Bishop…” My voice falters, a soft tremor slipping through the words.
The fear feels overwhelming, suffocating even, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it together.
His hand shifts higher beneath my skirt and I shudder, the panic and proximity colliding into a tangled mess of adrenaline.
The boat gives a sudden lurch, and instead of tipping, I feel myself sinking—sinking back into him as his other hand circles my waist again, anchoring me.
“Prescott,” he murmurs, and there’s an edge of urgency in his voice now.
He tightens his hold.
“Focus on me, okay? We’re not going to tip.”
I close my eyes, trying to push the panic down, trying to focus on his words instead of the water.
It doesn’t work completely, but it helps enough that I can breathe without feeling like I’m going to pass out.
Maybe it’s his touch, or maybe it’s just the desperation clawing at me for something solid, something still.
But I feel myself giving in, sinking into the heat of him like it might hold me together.
His arms tighten around me, one across my waist, the other still beneath my skirt.
He’s not rough—he’s steady.
Contained. A barrier between me and everything else.
He holds me so close it’s like there’s no space left between us, nothing but the sound of the waves and the frantic beating of my heart.
Then his hand moves—just slightly, just enough—and everything inside me flares.
His fingers trail higher, slow and deliberate, brushing over skin that feels impossibly hypersensitive.
My breath stutters, my whole body reacting before my mind can catch up.
I should be panicking again—but all I can feel is the warmth of his palm, the pressure of his touch, and the strange, overwhelming sense that I’m anchored.
Not drowning. Not lost. Just..
. held.
And then his finger finds that perfect spot—one that makes my spine arch and my thoughts scatter like windblown leaves.
The panic that had clawed its way up my throat recedes, replaced by something deeper, more primal.
I gasp as his thumb circles faster, each stroke sending sparks through me, erasing thoughts of the water below.
He adjusts me on his lap, and the shift presses him harder against my core; I bite down on my lip to stifle a moan.
His fingers move with an unrelenting rhythm, coaxing me toward an edge I’m suddenly desperate to fall over.
I tilt my head back against his shoulder, exhaling as electric sensations crash through me in torrid waves.
The firm line of his body is solid, grounding me, pulling me under; I clutch at him, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
The heat building inside me unfurls, a heady mix of desire and relief that blurs the world to a haze.
His breath is steady, controlled, right against my ear, and it thrills me—the way he seems to revel in my unraveling.
I shudder with the force of it, the chaos he’s woken in me.
Colors dance behind my eyelids, bright and untamed.
My cries escape in broken pieces as I come undone, trembling and gasping.
Beneath it all is his low laugh, warm and satisfied.
Then, without a word, he shifts, his body pulling away from me enough to reach for the forgotten oars.
His hands are steady, and the rhythmic sound of the boat gliding through the water fills the space between us.
His movements are effortless, powerful.
The boat seems to respond just to him, cutting through the water with ease.
For a moment, I just sit there, trying to collect myself, trying to catch my breath as I stay squeezed between his thighs.
The last of the tension leaves my body, but my mind is still spinning.
Bishop doesn’t look at me as he works.
His focus is entirely on the task at hand.
His arms move in a steady, practiced rhythm, guiding us forward, his presence like a steady anchor in the chaos of my thoughts.
We reach the second and then third buoy, Bishop moves sharply, each motion quick and precise.
He snatches the objects without hesitation, his movements so fluid it takes me a second to register what he’s done.
His arm cuts through the water with practiced control, every flex of muscle purposeful—efficient.
I glance at our boat, spotting all three items, surprised to see them already there.
I didn’t even notice him grab the second one.
I blink, a little stunned.
When did he get so fast?
He doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps rowing with that same relentless rhythm, like he was born doing this.
Watching him now, I can’t help but feel a flicker of awe—how calm he is, how in control.
It’s infuriating. And kind of impressive.
Bishop doesn’t break his rhythm, continuing to row with effortless precision.
His steady presence surrounds me, and the silence between us feels oddly comfortable, as if we don’t need words to communicate.
He shifts slightly, just enough for me to feel the change in the air, then speaks in a low, even tone.
“I’m perfectly content,” he says, his voice calm but laced with something I can’t quite place.
“But we’re about to pass the boathouse, and if you don’t want anyone seeing you in my lap, you might want to move.”
His words hang in the air, not harsh or demanding, just…
matter-of-fact.
I don’t argue, not because I agree, but because the logic of it settles in quickly.
Without a word, I shift, carefully adjusting myself away from him.
It’s subtle, but I catch the smallest flicker in his eyes—a flinch that betrays something deeper, something unreadable—but then it’s gone, hidden behind his usual calm mask.
He doesn’t comment, doesn’t make any movement to stop me.
His hands remain steady on the oars, the same practiced motion continuing as if nothing has changed.
There’s no hint of discomfort, no acknowledgment of the subtle shift in the air, but I know he noticed.
As we round the boathouse, I notice all the other boats already pulled up along the shoreline, their occupants milling around, chatting, stretching out.
The peaceful isolation of the water around us is suddenly punctured by the busy scene ahead.
Bishop’s gaze flicks briefly toward the shoreline, his attention sharp.
The boat moves smoothly toward its destination, and I can feel the tension of the moment shifting again.
But his silence remains, steady, almost like he’s waiting for something.
The boat finally reaches the shore, the gentle scrape of the hull against the sand pulling me back to the present.
Bishop doesn’t hurry, his hands still steady on the oars as he easily guides us into place.
The moment feels almost surreal, like we’re both suspended in time, surrounded by the quiet lapping of water and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.
Then, from the shore, I hear Reith’s voice, cutting through the stillness.
“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” he calls out, grinning.
His tone is light and teasing, the kind of playful jab that doesn’t sting.
“Coming in last, Bishop? Thought you were the captain of the rowing team.”
Bishop doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even acknowledge the jab right away.
His gaze remains on the boat as he starts to steady the oars.
Finally, without looking at Reith, he mutters in agreement, “You’re right. Can’t win ‘em all.”
His words are calm, but there’s a slight edge to them, a strange lack of his usual confidence. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t snap back as I’d expect. Instead, he moves with a quiet determination, his jaw set as he stands up, preparing to exit the boat.
“I need to grab something inside the boathouse,” Bishop says and without waiting for a reply, he stalks away, his long strides purposeful, the tension in his shoulders apparent.
There’s something different in the way he walks, more subdued than usual, and it doesn’t escape Reith’s notice.
Reith watches him go, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turns to look at me.
“Odd,” he says, furrowing his brow.
“Bishop usually gives as good as he gets, but he just let that slide.”
I don’t respond right away, my eyes following Bishop’s retreating figure.
My thoughts feel tangled, and something about Reith’s words sticks with me.
I want to make sense of it—why is it bothering me?
Why is it that, seeing him walk away, I feel a strange mixture of relief and confusion?
“Yeah,” I mutter finally, my voice quieter than I expect.
“It is strange.”
But there’s more to it than that.
I feel unsettled, like something I can’t quite grasp is shifting inside me.
The way Bishop was on the water, the way he didn’t push back when I was scared, the way he didn’t argue—was that what I wanted?
Or was it just…unsettling?
I glance at Reith, but he’s already turned back toward the other boats, seemingly uninterested.
I wish I could say the same.
I wish I could shake this feeling in my chest, this confusing pull between something I can’t define and a lingering sense that something’s changed.
Something’s different with Bishop, and maybe it’s not just him.
I swallow, trying to shake off the thoughts, but they stay.
I don’t know what this means for us.