Chapter Ten
Delilah
I’ve been sitting in my car for an hour.
One full hour. Parked in pervert row in the back corner of the lot, surveilling the community pool like it’s a CIA sting and not a side quest on my legally recommended journey to emotional literacy.
My private swim lesson with Benji is at eleven.
Eleven.
That’s in three minutes. Which is basically now, if we’re using Delilah Time, which always runs five minutes behind reality and ten minutes ahead of consequence.
I skipped breakfast because I read online that food in your stomach makes you more likely to drown.
And while that might be a myth, or the deranged ramblings of a Reddit thread called “WATER IS A LIQUID LIE,” I wasn’t about to risk dying bloated in front of a man who looks like he was grown in a lab for lifeguard porn.
Benji is already here. Of course he is.
This is his job and he’s responsible. He’s also built like a firefighter calendar and radiating golden retriever energy that makes me want to sob into his neck and hump his shin.
His 10:00 a.m. lesson just wrapped. She came out early, drippy and casual, all sad one-piece swimsuit and a bargain bin towel knotted at the hip like she’s never once considered seducing a man through the power of visual storytelling. I watched her float by at ease just being adequate.
I am not fine being adequate.
I have an adorable pale pink pullover on, hooded, cropped, coordinated like my life depends on the color story.
Underneath, my swimsuit says pin-up trauma survivor.
I skipped my usual war paint. No mascara.
No lashes. Just a whisper of lip gloss, because she has never betrayed me.
She’s subtle. She’s waterproof. She knows how to shut up and shimmer.
Makeup-free feels like standing naked in a fluorescent interrogation room while God and every ex I’ve ever had critiques my pores. But I wanted Benji to see me as… normal? Vulnerable? Human?
I think I hate that I want that.
I don’t do bare-faced crushes. I do high-drama seductions with winged eyeliner sharp enough to perform surgery.
But Benji’s too sweet for war tactics. He opens doors for old people and would offer to carry my gym bag with both hands like it might explode.
He blushes when I flirt. No one blushes anymore.
I don’t know how to survive this level of wholesomeness without catching a complex.
And right now he’s shirtless.
Shirtless.
No cap. No shirt. Just curls and muscle and that vulnerable prince who works part-time at the castle stables energy. His hair’s wet and floppy and real, not the crunchy gelled stuff. The curls are damp and loose and clinging to his forehead, begging for my fingers.
His chest is hold-me-while-I-sob-during-a-storm broad.
And the abs.
I could grate cheese on them. I could ruin my life on them. I could accidentally drown just so he has to haul me out of the water, cradle me to his dripping chest, and scream, “Stay with me, ma’am!”
His swim trunks are black and hanging criminally low on his hips. “I want to move into that V-line” low. “I would pay rent in the form of oral devotion” low.
This is the hottest man I’ve ever met. And I’ve met Jett. I’ve met Rhys. But this feels dangerous because it’s not just lust.
It’s hope.
And hope is way scarier than horniness.
I finally pry myself out of the car like a raccoon forced out of a trash bin, twitchy, unwilling, and one wrong look from biting someone.
My lip gloss is still perfect, my swim cover-up is still matching like I’m starring in a workout Barbie promo, but internally I am rotisserie-level roasting on a spit of dread.
I make it three steps past the pool gate before the splash happens.
It’s not just a splash. It’s a whole-ass event. Some wiry demon-child hurls herself off the diving board with the grace of a possessed goblin, landing in a geyser of chaos while her mom cheers like this is normal and not, in fact, a waking nightmare.
Every atom in my body screams no. My soul does a backflip, my heart hits factory reset, and I yeet myself directly into the metal fence like a tragic, trembling pinball. Full-body clatter. Dignity? Missing, presumed drowned.
And then Benji appears out of nowhere. A shirtless, sun-warmed guardian angel with golden retriever eyes and swimmer’s shoulders that make my mouth malfunction. His hands are on me, one on my back, one catching my arm like I’m breakable and worth catching. Which is frankly unfair.
“Delilah,” he says, voice low, concerned, sweet as vanilla and sin. “Are you okay?”
Oh no. That tone. I can’t. His concern slides under my skin. I blink up at him, dumb and wet-brained, because his jawline is doing unspeakable things to my central nervous system.
“No,” I say, honest and breathless. “I thought I could do this. It’s just water, right? But also, no. Hard pass. Brain says no. Body says nope. I think I’m going to evaporate.”
His brows pull together, beautifully confused. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I,” I try, but words fumble out like half-melted crayons. “It’s pools. Just... pools. I was left in one. When I was a kid. Drowned a little. Not like the fun metaphorical way. The actual way. Lots of bubbles. Less air.”
“Oh,” he says, and he doesn’t flinch or pity me or look away. Just steadies me like I’m not too much. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”
My throat wobbles. “I’ll just go. I ruined it. This was dumb. You should go teach your mermaid class and I’ll go eat cereal aggressively somewhere.”
“Delilah,” he says, gentle but firm, “this is what I do. I help people get comfortable in the water. You’re not ruining anything. Let me help.”
“Help how?” I croak, suspicious and hopeful in that stray dog with trust issues way. “Can we sit? Not in the pool. Like… over there. Opposite side of the fence. Or just emotionally adjacent to the pool?”
He smiles. And holy hell, it’s like sunshine beamed directly into my ribcage.
“Sure,” he says. “We can start wherever you need to. Even if it’s just talking. Even if you don’t want to get in today.”
When did this man get so perfect?
Somehow, somewhere in my meltdown, our hands found each other. His fingers are warm and calloused and gentle. He’s not pulling. Just there. Anchoring. Waiting for me to decide.
I nod.
He leads me, slowly, sweetly, to the shallow end. “What if we sit on the first step together?” he says, crouching beside it. “You don’t even have to let the water touch your feet unless you’re ready.”
I want to joke. Want to say something unhinged about drowning in his arms or choking on chlorine and fate, but my mouth won’t go full feral. Not right now. Not when he’s this sincere, this safe.
I sit beside him, knees drawn up like a terrified Victorian orphan, toes just barely brushing the surface.
Benji grins and dips his feet in too. “See? Just water. Nothing scary when we do it together.”
My heart is doing stupid things like hoping, fluttering, and trying to fight its way out through my ribcage in a doomed escape attempt.
“You’re kind,” I whisper, and I absolutely did not give my mouth permission to say that out loud. Traitor.
Benji’s smile goes soft around the edges, like a warm cookie still gooey in the middle. He bumps my shoulder, light and playful. “You deserve that.”
And maybe I do.
Just for now. Just for this warm, stupid second where he hasn’t seen the blood yet. The teeth. The parts of me that bite.
But he will.
They always do.
And then they run, and I chase, and that’s the part I know how to survive.
We sit on the pool steps together. Just enough water to threaten my dignity but not quite enough to drown in, so... progress. He talks to me. Asks questions as if I’m interesting, and the answers matter. It’s awful. Wonderful. Panic-inducing.
He wants to know me. Sir. That is not safe behavior.
So I do the only logical thing.
“I’m getting in,” I say.
“Oh, okay,” he says, all patient and sunshine. “You don’t have to rush. We can sit here as long as…”
Too late. I’m already yanking my pullover off in what is probably the least sexy strip in human history. There’s an arm stuck. I almost faceplant. Somewhere in the process I hiccup a tiny squeak that might’ve been a sob or a war cry. Hard to say.
Benji doesn’t laugh. He beams. Like I’m the bravest girl he’s ever seen, and my swimsuit and panic sweat are a fucking ballgown.
He keeps my hands in his as I step forward, toe first, until the water slips up over my feet. It’s cold and liquid and wrong, and I hate it, and…
“You good?” he asks, steady and calm. The human version of a floaty.
“My toe polish shines in the water.” I stare down. “Are you a foot guy?”
He actually laughs. And it’s a real one, low and warm and gorgeous, the kind of sound that could trick a person into believing in good men. “Never really thought about it,” he says, “but you’ve got very nice feet. Tiny. Cute.”
I blush.
What the ever-loving fuck is happening?
I’m the predator here. The siren. The feral menace.
I do not blush.
And yet. Goddammit.
“Maybe it’s because you’re so tall you don’t see many feet,” I say, instantly regretting it.
He laughs again, this time with his whole face. God. His laugh could water crops.
“You’re like a giant angel,” I say before I can stop myself.
Now he blushes again. All pink cheeks and bashful dimples and suddenly I am fighting for my life not to climb him like a palm tree.
“We’ve got about ten minutes until my next client,” he says gently. “Do you want to try another step? No pressure at all.”
I blow out a breath hard enough to fog glass. My knees are buzzing, but not in a bad way. I nod. “Umm… you’ll hold my hand?”
His grip tightens slightly. “Absolutely.”
And the way he says it, no hesitation, no agenda, just absolute makes something inside me crack in a way that feels good. Bad. Terrifying.
So I take another step. Into the water. Toward him.
It kisses up my calves, ghost-cold and too familiar. My body remembers things I didn’t invite it to remember. Chlorine and screams. A mouth full of water. Silence that crackled like thunder in my ears.
Benji doesn’t let go of my hands.
“You’re doing great,” he says, in a tone for a kid learning to ride a bike, or a grown woman trying not to bolt from the memory of being half-dead at seven.
And instead of saying thank you like a normal girl with a functioning emotional regulation system, I blurt, “Do you think lifeguards ever develop, like, PTSD from seeing so many wet kids screaming?”
“Probably,” he says, looking thoughtful. “That’s a lot of energy to be around all day. Especially in summer.”
“And you’re not even judging me for that question?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, looking for the answer he might be hiding.
“Nope.” He smiles. “Honestly, I’ve had weirder conversations during CPR certification. Once a guy asked if mouth-to-mouth counts as cheating.”
“Wait, does it?” I demand.
He snorts. “If you’re asking that during a medical emergency, maybe your relationship’s already doomed.”
I stare at him, stunned. “You’re good at this.”
“At what?”
“This.” I wave my hand around the air like I’m conducting some kind of emotional symphony I don’t know the notes to. “The… being a soft human flotation device for the mentally unwell.”
He tilts his head. “You’re not mentally unwell. You’re scared.”
That hits me square in the sternum.
I want to argue. Say something mean. Bite his perfect chest. Anything but this feeling like maybe he sees me and doesn’t flinch.
My knees buckle slightly. The water’s up to them now. I’ve survived worse. But not while anyone was watching.
“Pool chemicals smell like childhood trauma,” I say, because God forbid I be normal for five seconds.
Benji grins. “They do kinda smell like bleach and repressed memories.”
“Exactly,” I whisper, eyes wide. “It’s like... if trauma had a perfume line.”
He lets out a huff of laughter, but when I wobble again, his arm comes around my waist, solid and sure and there. “You okay?” he asks.
No.
“Yes,” I lie. Then, “Maybe.”
I lean into him before I can talk myself out of it.
Press my face against his chest, which is somehow even warmer than the sun, and breathe in his sunscreen and something inherently safe.
I’m not crying. Not exactly. But something is leaking out of me.
It’s tension melting. Poison bleeding into open air.
He shifts slightly to cradle me, big hands spanning my back. I fit here.
“Thank you,” I say, voice raw.
His chin brushes the top of my head. “Anytime, ma’am.”
Ma’am.
Oh God.
I might be in love with a lifeguard.