Page 123 of Carrick
I smirked, but it didn’t last. The expression faded almost as soon as it formed. There was something in the air now—something tender, almost fragile.
“What else are you thinking about?” I asked, quieter now. Not teasing. Just curious. Careful.
She inhaled slowly, like the words needed coaxing. “About how this feels normal. Too normal. Like if I stop moving, the world’s going to remember I’m supposed to be afraid again.”
I didn’t answer right away. Because I knew that feeling too well—the sense of being on borrowed time. Like happiness was a place you weren’t meant to stay, and the second you paused to enjoy it, something would come to take it away.
She looked over at me, eyes steady in the low light. No edge in her expression. Just raw, open honesty. “You ever get that? Like… happiness feels like trespassing?”
I nodded. “Every day.”
It was the kind of truth that lived deep—threaded through bone and breath. I carried it the same way she did, always bracing for the blow that followed the quiet, for the cost peace always seemed to demand.
Something shifted in her then. Not fire, not fury—just something softer. Like maybe, just maybe, the weight we both carried didn’t have to be held alone. She drifted closer, barely disturbing the water. Her knee brushed mine, subtle but certain.Then her shoulder found my arm, warm and real, and neither of us pulled away.
“I don’t want this to end,” she said.
“What part?”
“This,” she whispered. “The quiet. You.”
Her voice settled into me like a bruise. I watched the way the moonlight touched her skin, how her lips parted like more words hovered there, unsaid. She didn’t look away, and neither did I.
I didn’t kiss her—though I ached to. I just reached beneath the surface and took her hand. She let me, fingers folding into mine without hesitation.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Not unless you ask me to.”
She looked down at our hands, then back up. “I think I’m starting to believe it.”
“Then I’ll keep saying it until you do.”
We stood in the water, hands joined beneath the surface, trees rising around us like sentinels while the moon cast everything in silver hush. Time felt suspended, like the night itself had gone still.
Eventually, we climbed out. I passed her a towel. She took it without looking away, and for a breath, we just stood there, toe to toe, breath to breath. Then she leaned in, and I closed my eyes, expecting a kiss that didn’t come.
She turned instead, shoulder brushing mine, vanishing into the trees with nothing but pine needles underfoot and moonlight on her skin.
And somehow, that one moment wrecked me more than anything else she could’ve done. It was quieter than sex. More intimate than touch. And it gutted me.
The trail home was darker than before. Lanterns burned low, casting long, uncertain shadows. Crickets hummed in the underbrush. An owl called somewhere deep in the trees.Bellamy walked ahead, towel wrapped around her shoulders, bare legs catching the low light. Her hair hung in damp waves, trailing down her back, and each step was silent, assured. Like the forest knew her.
I could’ve let her stay ahead. Let the quiet stretch between us. But I didn’t want the distance. I caught up slowly, falling into step beside her.
For a while, we said nothing, just moved through the woods like the night was still holding its breath. Water dripped from our skin in soft little echoes, and the world around us stayed hushed, like it knew we needed the silence.
Finally she spoke, voice low, words careful, like she wasn’t ready to let the moment go.
“Back there,” she said softly, “in the water… I almost kissed you again.”
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just looked ahead, like it cost her something to admit. “It’s getting harder to stop myself.”
I reached for her hand, my voice low. “Then don’t.”
She hesitated—just long enough to make my chest ache. “Why didn’t we?”
I exhaled. “Because we both wanted it to mean more than the moment. We don’t want this to be impulsive. We are building something here, and we want it to be real. And sometimes that takes time”
That made her glance over. The moonlight caught her profile, and I could see the quiet war behind her eyes—part worry, part hope, all scar tissue.
