“Then stop taking my side.”

Samson looks at me with a small grin, almost as if he’s saying, “That’s not gonna happen.”

“You’re bleeding.” I grab a nearby towel and wipe his jaw. He’s got a small gash across his jawbone. Beau must have been wearing a ring. “You should put a bandage on that.”

Samson’s eyes change as he stares back at me. “I have some at the house.” He pushes out of his chair and walks around the fire, heading home.

He doesn’t even invite me or wait on me, but I could tell from his expression he wants me to follow him. I press a palm against my neck, feeling the heat rising to my skin. I stand up. I glance at Sara before I walk away.

“Remember,” she whispers. “A signal. A high five.”

I laugh and then follow Samson to his house. He’s several yards ahead of me, but he leaves his door open when he goes inside, so he knows I’m following him.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I blow out a calming breath. I don’t know why I’m nervous. We kissed last night. The hardest part is over.

I close the door when I walk inside. Samson is at the sink, wetting a paper towel. I walk into the kitchen and notice he didn’t turn any of the lights on. The only lights in the house are coming from the appliances and the moon shining through the windows.

I lean against the counter to get a look at his cut. He tilts his head so that I can inspect it. “Is it still bleeding?” he asks.

“A little.” I pull back and watch him as he presses the wet napkin against his jaw again.

“I don’t have any bandages,” he says. “I was lying.”

I nod. “I know. You don’t have shit in this house.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, but there’s something heavy weighing his smile down. Whatever that heaviness is weighs me down.

He pulls the napkin away and tosses it on the counter, then he grips the edges of the counter like he’s having to hold himself back.

He’s not going to make the first move this time, no matter how much he seems like he wants to. And as nervous as I am, I want to experience a whole kiss with him, from beginning to end.

Samson’s stare is like a magnetic pull, coaxing me toward him. I step closer, my movements timid. No matter how nervous I seem, he doesn’t push it. He just waits. My heart is pounding in my chest when it’s clear to both of us that I’m about to kiss him.

It feels different than last night. It feels more significant since we’ve both spent the last day thinking about it and have obviously come to the conclusion that we both want it to happen again.

We maintain eye contact as I lift onto my toes and lightly press my lips to his. He inhales while my mouth is still against his, as if he’s summoning up patience that no longer exists inside of him.

I pull back a fraction, needing to see his reaction. His pointed gaze and parted lips are a promising hint for whatever might happen next. I don’t feel like I’ll end up running out of this kitchen again now that I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours regretting that move.

Samson lowers his forehead to mine. I squeeze my eyes shut when he wraps a hand around the back of my head. He keeps his forehead pressed against mine and I imagine his eyes are closed, too. It’s like he wants to be close to me, but he knows he can’t hug me and he doesn’t know if he should kiss me.

I tilt my head back on instinct, wanting his lips against mine again. He accepts the silent invitation by kissing the corner of my mouth, then the center of it. He releases a shaky breath, like he’s savoring what’s coming.

His hand that’s wrapped in my hair angles my head back even more, and then he kisses me with confidence.

It’s slow and deep, like he might not survive if he doesn’t swallow a little bit of my soul in this kiss. He tastes like saltwater and my blood feels like the sea, raging and crashing through my veins.

I want to live in this feeling. Sleep in it. Wake up in it.

I don’t want the kiss to end yet, but when he starts to slow it down, I like how he does it. Gradual, careful, difficult, like he’s coming to a halt about as slow as a train could.

When we’re no longer kissing, he releases me, but I don’t move away. I’m still pressed against him, but he’s gripping the counter again on either side of himself rather than gripping me. I appreciate that he isn’t wrapping me in his arms right now.

Kissing I’ve proved I can handle tonight. Being held is something I’m not quite ready for, and he already knows how I feel about it.

I press my forehead against his shoulder and close my eyes.

I can hear his breaths, labored and deep as he rests his head lightly against mine.

We stay like this for a while and I don’t know what to feel or what to think. I don’t know if it’s normal to feel a thousand pounds heavier after you kiss someone.

I feel like I’m doing this all wrong, but at the same time, it feels like maybe Samson and I are the only people who are doing this right in the whole world.

“Beyah,” he whispers. His mouth is right over my ear, so when he says my name, goosebumps run down my neck and arms. I keep my forehead pressed against him and my eyes closed.

“What?”

There’s a pause that feels way longer than it actually is. “I’m leaving in August.”

I don’t know what to say to that. It was only four words, but he drew a very deep line in the sand with those four words. A line I knew would eventually come.

“Me too,” I say.

I lift my head and my eyes are drawn to his necklace. I touch it, running my finger across the wood. He’s looking down at me like maybe he wants to kiss me again. I would take a thousand more of those tonight. I didn’t feel anything negative this time. It was all good, yet chilling. It’s as if he kissed me backward, from the inside out—the same way I think he looks at me sometimes. Like he sees the inside of me before he notices what’s outside.

He tilts my chin up with a finger and presses his lips to mine again, this time with his eyes open, soaking me in. He pulls back, but not very far. All his words seem to seep into my mouth when he speaks. “If we do this, it stays in the shallow end.”

I nod, but then I shake my head. I don’t know if I’m agreeing or disagreeing. “What do you mean by shallow end?”

His stare matches the tightness in my chest. He slides his tongue over his top lip like he’s thinking of how to elaborate on his thoughts without hurting my feelings. “I just mean…if this becomes a thing. A summer thing. That’s all I want it to be. I don’t want to leave here in August in a relationship.”

“I don’t want that, either. We’ll be on two different sides of the country.”

He slides the backs of his fingers down my arm. When he slides them back up again, he doesn’t stop at my shoulder. His fingers glide up my collarbone until he’s touching my cheek.

“People sometimes still drown in the shallow end,” he whispers.

That’s a dark thought. One I think he probably meant to keep to himself. But here I am, pulling back those layers whether he likes it or not.

So many layers.

I don’t know how kissing him felt like I bypassed every layer and burrowed right into his core, but it did. It’s like I see the real him, despite all the unknown that still surrounds him.