Especially when I watch him spread the towels and start to pull out containers of food.

I take a seat on the striped terry cloth, cross-legged. “This is nice,” I admit, picking up a grape leaf and taking a bite. The flavor of spiced rice explodes across my tongue, and I almost groan out loud. “Sloane tell you about this place?”

“No. I just know you like hummus.”

I laugh. He smirks, his expression triumphant.

Fuck. He’s winning in our battle of wills—because I want him to.

We eat mostly in silence after that. This time, it’s not forced. I’m not schooling my reactions and responses. It’s just comfortable. I’m happy sitting here with him, and I don’t need to put it into words. He’s relaxed as well.

“Want to walk?” he asks once we’ve finished dinner.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He shoves himself upright from the sand and holds out a hand. I let him pull me up, and I stay in place when momentum causes us to collide. I missed touching him. The heat of his skin and his smell.

I don’t move away. He doesn’t either.

One hand tangles in my hair, pulling it back and away from my face. I close my eyes and lean into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin seep into mine. I fall forward, knowing he’ll be there to keep me from landing flat on my face.

We stand like that—with me pressed against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair. “Sorry I hurt you. Sorry it took me so long to figure my shit out.”

I don’t say it’s okay because it’s not. Not yet, at least. The pain is too fresh, too visceral. But I lift my hands and wrap them around his waist, shrinking the gap between us down to nothing.

I’m not sure how long we stand there for, but my chest feels lighter when I step back. He takes my hand, and our fingers tangle as we walk down the beach, closer and closer to the white foam that approaches and retreats.

Gray pauses to roll up the bottoms of his jeans, then walks into the water. I attempt to do the same, then quickly remember that my pants are practically painted to my skin. The only way they’ll be harder to get off is if they’re wet, so I stay on the sand.

“Why aren’t you coming in?” Gray asks.

“I can’t roll my jeans up,” I admit.

As expected, he laughs before wading back onto the shore. “Is this like the television remote?”

“No!” I scoff.

“On your butt,” he demands. In the same tone as he’s demanded other positions.

I complied then, and I do the same now. He kneels before me and starts tugging on the denim around my ankles, trying to force the material upward.