Arsen grips me by the hips and lifts me into the air. A quick squeal escapes me, and I’m forced to wrap my legs around his body for stability, knowing full well we’re going in.

Sure enough, with me wrapped around him, he jumps into the deep end. His legs come up, crossing under mine, slowly allowing us to fall to the pool’s floor.

At the bottom, he releases me, and we try to sit with our legs crossed as gravity sends us back to the surface.

Laughing, I swim to the opposite end, where we set up some snack trays with items we found in the fridge from Gennie.

I pick up a small crab cake and push the entire thing in my mouth as Arsen swims up, opening his.

I shove one in, laughing when he nips at my fingers and nods toward the pitcher of water, his empty glass in his free hand.

As I pass it to him, I catch Ransom staring, and he doesn’t turn away, but Arsen pats my thigh, so I refocus on him.

He nods toward the waterfall.

“Go for it.” I laugh. “But you’re on your own with that one.”

With a grin, he takes off underwater.

His head pops up and he climbs out as Ransom lowers himself beside me.

He watches Arsen, a strained look in his eyes. “He likes you.”

I study him a moment and then decide. “That surprises you?”

As if he’s unsure my statement is true, his brows pinch.

“He doesn’t sign,” I ease, and Ransom looks to me. “Does that mean he can speak but doesn’t?”

“As long as I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him say a word,” he shares. “He saw some shit as a kid, things his dad did to his own mom. When someone finally called social services, his dad told him if he spoke a word, he’d find him and do worse. He told anyway and later, they gave him back to his dad, and the asshole made good on his promise. He couldn’t speak after, and once he got better, he decided he didn’t want to.” He shrugs.

My muscles clench and I look to Arsen. “He doesn’t need words. He speaks in his own way.”

“He’s fluent with you. Normally he just... stares or glares around other people, avoids as much as he can. Not with you.” A small frown mars his forehead. “He motions, and you understand, without annoyance or pause or frustration. People aren’t like that with him.”

“People like Scott.” I remember that day in cooking class.

When he doesn’t speak, I look his way, and his eyes are already on me.

“You’re not like them,” he says suddenly, a thick sense of certainty in his tone, and while I hold his gaze a moment, I’m forced to look away.