I lost count of how many times I had to pull him out of the water; I rescued him from drowning at least half a million times.

The first few attempts were what you might call mildly traumatic—wild splashing, panicked gasps, his fingers gripping my arms in a desperate, vice-like hold every time the water threatened to pull him under. He hated not being in control, but even more than that, he hated to give up.

At times, his arms would wind around me—an instinctive, terrified reaction. His hand would find my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder, and in those brief moments, when his fear brought him closer to me than anything else ever had, I’d feel a shiver run through me.

I liked those moments.

Because his touch burned, but not in a painful way.

Because for those brief seconds, he needed me.

One afternoon, as I dragged him up from the water yet again, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, Dad’s voice cut through the summer air like a whip.

“Beverly!”

I turned, still holding onto Blake, and found him standing on the dock, arms crossed, his expression a mix of frustration and concern.

“Don’t you take Blake in the deep end again! You know better than that.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his disapproval settle on my chest. Forcing myself to look guilty, I muttered, “I’m sorry,” keeping my voice small and apologetic.

I blinked rapidly, feigning the threat of tears, just enough for him to soften. Dad hated it when I cried, and I had learned to use it to my advantage.

His expression softened almost immediately, just as I knew it would. He was always quick to forgive when I showed any hint of remorse. “It’s alright,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair, the strands just starting to get gray. “Just be very careful, okay?”

I nodded obediently, but the moment he turned his back to walk toward the cabin, I glanced at Blake. His eyes were already on me, wide with that pleading look he wore when he was determined to get his way.

“Again,” he said, breathless but unwavering.

I shook my head, a weak attempt to pull back. “Dad said⁠—”

“Dad won’t know.” His voice was quiet but firm, his grip tightening slightly, as if he were afraid I’d refuse him. “We’ll be careful.”

I hesitated. I really, truly did. But Blake wasn’t the kind of person who asked for much. And in that moment, he was asking for me. Dad’s words still echoed in my mind, but Blake’s pleading expression was far louder.