Page 42 of Until Forever Falls

I shrug, the words slipping out with a confidence I don’t completely feel. “A deal’s a deal. You wanted a show? Then step up, Holland. The pool’s that way, and the clothes are coming off—unless you’re having second thoughts?”

He rises like gravity is an afterthought, the shift in his weight impossibly fluid. His fingers find the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one clean motion. Shadows dance over the cut of his torso, the kind of definition that looks like it belongs on the cover of a sun faded magazine. I exhale through my nose while heat gathers low in my stomach, spreading like ink in water.

Brooks doesn’t look away from me. Not once.

His thumbs hook under the waistband of his clothes, a flick of his wrist undoing the button. The zipper lowers. The denim slides down his legs, gathering at his feet before he steps out and kicks them aside. A chorus of cheers erupt, someone else bangs on the nearest table, but it’s all background noise. Static compared to the way he’s looking at me. Like there’s no one else here.

Then, he moves.

Brooks takes two unhurried steps back, the muscles in his legs flexing beneath the glow of the patio’s string lights. And then, without a second thought, he pushes off, cutting through the air in a sharp arc before colliding with the water below. The splash is instant, sending ripples fanning across the pool’s surface.

A heartbeat passes, then another, before he finally resurfaces.

Water clings to every defined ridge of his body, streaming down his chest in slow rivulets. His soaked hair drips into his eyes until he shoves a hand through it, pushing it back. Overhead lights catch on the droplets tracing the sharp cut of his jaw and the broad slope of his shoulders. He tips his head, shaking off the excess water, his gaze locking onto mine as he moves toward the edge.

His hands find the concrete lip of the pool, fingers flexing before he hoists himself up in one fluid motion. The roll of his shoulders, the subtle rise of his chest, the way his stomach tenses as he lifts himself free from the water—it’s unfair. Unholy, even.

I should tear my focus away before it’s obvious that I can’t. But my mind is stuck, circling the same thought over and over.

“Happy now?” His voice is smooth, like he’s the one holding all the cards.

“Getting there.”

“Your turn,” he taunts, and his voice dips just enough to make it feel like a private challenge, meant for me and no one else.

“What do you mean,mytur—”

My fate is sealed before I can finish the thought. Brooks bends, sweeping me up in an instant. His arm locks around my legs, his sweatshirt bunched in his grip to cover my ass as I’m swung over his shoulder. I push against his back, protesting, but he doesn’t break stride.

The plunge into the pool is unforgiving.

Water slams into me, pulling me under with the force of his momentum. The world goes silent for a moment, just a rush of bubbles and blurred faces from above.

The two of us break the surface gasping for air. I wipe my face, blinking through the sting of chlorine.

“I hate you,” I manage.

Brooks shakes the water from his hair, completely unbothered. “You love me.”

I reach for his shoulders without thinking, bracing myself against him in the water. His hands steady me, fingers pressing against my waist as I instinctively tighten my legs around him to keep myself afloat.

“I won,” I argue. “I didn’t have to skinny dip, remember?”

He barely moves, but I feel like shift in his focus as his attention dips. “You didn’t. You still have my hoodie on.”

I glance down, waterlogged fabric clinging to me. He’s not wrong. I’m stilltechnicallycovered.

The backs of his fingers brush my cheek as he smooths my hair away, taking his time like he’s memorizing the feel of it. Then he pulls me closer, words spilling gently into the curve of my ear. “You can take it off if you want, but I think I’d rather keep you all to myself.”

A sharp shrill cuts through the moment, coming from the crumpled pile of his jeans. His head jerks toward it, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Fuck, that’s my dad.” In one swift motion, he lifts me onto the pool’s edge, then pulls himself up beside me. Before I can blink, he strides over, snatches his phone, shoots me one last look, and vanishes into the house.

Chloe slips into the space he left beside me, like she’s been waiting for the opening since the game ended. “You know, Dylan,” she purrs, her voice oozing with a twisted kind of sincerity. “Brooks is only nice because, well, someone has to be.”

The air stills. “What?”

She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You really don’t get it, do you? He keeps you around because—let’s face it—he feels bad. We all do.”

“That’s not true.”

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