Page 49 of Riptide

He blinks, just once, and the emotion disappears from his eyes. No pity, though, which makes me internally exhale. “Shit,” he says. “That explains the control thing.”

I snort, and it pulls a smile from me, despite everything. “You think I’ve got control issues?”

“Not exactly that. Well…maybe.” He grins again, wide and unrepentant, then he winks, and the gesture hits exactly as intended. “You were rearranging your bookshelf while waiting for me to knock on the door, weren’t you?”

I groan, tipping my head back. I can’t even deny it. “Jesus.”

“You alphabetize your spice rack, huh?”

“It’s called organization.”

“It’s called adorable.”

I look at him, half horrified, half…maybe something else. And he’s just watching me with that smile that says he’s got my number and isn’t letting go of it any time soon.

Chapter twenty-one

Finn

Ilikewatchinghimlet go a little. Not in some dramatic, fall-apart way, but in the way his shoulders drop when he forgets to hold them so tight. The way his mouth softens when he’s not guarding every word. I get to see him, the real him, not the professor who many see daily. It feels more intimate than anything we’ve done naked, and that’s saying something.

It’s not even about tearing down his walls. I’m not trying to crack him open or make him talk. It’s just...nice, seeing him settle. Like maybe, for once, he doesn’t feel like he has to brace for something or that someone needs something from him.

And for some reason, tonight, he lets me be the one he does that around. Lets me close. Lets me warm him up. That should probably scare me because it means more. Before, it might’ve made me run. But I want to be here. Everyone’s got a past. How he lived before he met me doesn’t undo the fact that we’re here. And as long as he’s not stuck back there, I’m not going to waste time looking over his shoulder. We’ll talk about it in depth, eventually—when it matters.

What surprises me most is when he mentioned his husband. Not the fact that he had one, or even that he told me. It’s the look in his eyes when he said it. That flicker of grief that passed so fast, most people would miss it. But I didn’t. I felt it like a tug in my chest, the kind of feeling that creeps in just before something important happens. Then that quiet whisper, and the sharp protectiveness snuck in before I could stop it.

I swirl what’s left of my beer, watching the bubbles vanish, trying to shake it off. But then I look at him and, yeah, there it is again.

It’s the way the light hits the side of his face, or the way he half-smiles when he’s trying not to show how much he’s thinking. I get the impression sometimes he thinks I’m not paying attention, but I always am.

It’s a habit, reading people the way I used to read water. Knowing the swell before it rises, feeling the shift in the air just before a break. It used to be instinct, second nature. Now I think I’ve started doing the same with him.

The pause before he answers a question. The tilt of his head like he’s trying to decide if I’m real or just a trick of the light. The sparkle in his eyes when he checks me out.

He’s not hard to read. He’s just not used to being seen.

And I see him.

There’s a weight to his stillness that says more than words can, and I’m drawn to it.

His strong jaw gives him charm, but his dark eyes give him an edge. And fuck, the glasses…they’re not always there—apparently they’re mostly for screens and reading—but I melt every time he slides them on or off, adjusts them.

I’m not surprised he’s been married. You don’t stumble into someone like him; you make a decision. You stay. Whoever it was, it’s his loss, and I already know Foxx deserves more than what he got.

Then he breaks the silence and asks, “So...am I allowed to ask about surfing?” He assesses my reaction and continues. “It’s just, your profile pictures are all of you on the beach or water. I feel like I’m missing important information about you.”

Cold clamps down on my spine, but I force myself to focus on his words, not the darkness in the corners of my mind. “You’re allowed,” I say, voice a little hoarse from the effort it takes to keep my pulse steady. I run my finger along the edge of the beer label, feeling it curl beneath the pressure. “There’s not much to say, really,” I offer, and it’s technically true. At least the version I give most people. “I was good at it. Still am. It just…stopped being what I thought it was. Things went south, and I left.”

Foxx doesn’t interrupt. He nods and takes a sip of his beer, listening, and for some reason, it makes me want to continue.

“I started young,” I say, slower now, choosing every word like it might cost me. “Shit got serious fast during high school. I ended up spending every weekend at the coast. I competed, trained, lived and breathed it.” Me and Jared, we both did.

There’s a pressure in my ears now, that low thrum of adrenaline that doesn’t make sense. Like I’m about to paddle into a wave too big for me, and I know I’m gonna wipe out, but I’m still doing it anyway. “I loved it,” I say, and it slips out too weakly. “Still do. But…sometimes things you love don’t always last.”

Foxx watches me, unblinking. And I think I see my words resonate with him when he nods thoughtfully, his thick eyebrows furrowing. “You ever think about going back? Trying again?” he asks.

“Sometimes,” I admit. The real answer isalways. Every day. Every night. Every time I see the ocean and my stomach knots like it’s calling me home and I won’t let myself answer. “But I’m not sure I’d be going back to something I still recognize,” I say. “Might be better to start fresh.”

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