“You did.”

My legs relaxed, sliding down his hips, caressing his legs, and finally began to tread water again. Beyond us, the town crowned against the beach.

“We should head back,” I said.

Levi took a shaky breath. “Yes.”

We dripped our way back to the town, to the place where sand turned to concrete. Under the yellow glow of the streetlights, we couldn’t look at each other. I was a little taken aback by the ferocity of our ocean kiss, the hot and cold of our mouths melding together. I could still feel his mouth against mine, the seamless rhythm we’d both locked into like we’d been kissing for years. A shiver went through me. I was eager to resume where we’d left off, my body throbbing for him in every muscle, in every heartbeat—I hoped he felt the same way.

“You’re soaked,” said Levi, running a hand over my hair. “Do you want to come over and dry off?” His words were spoken quickly, in a low whisper, as if there was anyone outside to hear us.

Everyone was tucked away in their cozy houses. I could see the shifting colors of the television glinting against open windows, could hear the hushed rumble of dissonant voices and music.

“Nah, I’m fine. It’ll dry on the bike ride up.” I reached back to gather my hair in a low ponytail and squeezed my hair at the base of my neck, feeling the cool water drench the back of my dress.

“Well, at least let me cook us some dinner. We haven’t eaten.”

His eyes glowed soft and fey in the lamplight. I looked at him from under lowered lashes, the clumpy, wet spikes obscuring most of my vision. “Okay,” I agreed. I resisted the shiver that went over my shoulders. I wondered—hoped—that he wanted to pick up where we left off.

My hair was already starting to dry. I scrunched it in my palm, feeling the saltwater stiffness. But I trailed after him all the same, the only noise in the thick blanket of night coming from the steady glide of my bike wheels.

His porch light was our beacon, one of the few on the street.

“It’s always so dark here,” Levi muttered. I heard the click of his key in the lock and the sharp finality of the lock giving way. He pushed the door open.

I stepped through the doorway, the hairs on my arms prickling. It was cooler inside.

Absently, I said, “During the Revolutionary War, the people of Oar’s Rest had a strict curfew in place. These were the days when they were afraid of marauders and soldiers coming across the sea. When the sun set, they would turn off all their lights—the lighthouse hadn’t been built then—and the whole town would be plunged into darkness.”