Page 15 of The Forbidden Summer
His fingers pause in the water.
“I’m not tense.”
I tilt my head. “You flinch when I look at you too long.”
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
He doesn’t deny it this time. Just pulls his hand from the water.
I lean forward slightly, just enough to close a bit of the space between us. Not touching, but close. Closer than we’ve been.
He notices. “Van.” His voice is quiet. Not quite a warning.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t finish the thought. Just stares at me like he’s trying to solve something. I reach out carefully and pluck a small leaf from his hair. My fingers graze his temple briefly. Not accidental, though I want it to seem that way.
He doesn’t pull away.
“There was…” I hold up the leaf. “A thing.”
He lets out a shaky breath. Not quite a laugh, but his eyes don’t leave mine.
The boat rocks gently, and for one suspended second, I think he might say something. Something meaningful. Something wise.
But instead, he just says, “We should head back.”
And I nod, even though I don’t want to. Even though we both know something just changed between us.
The boat noses toward shore, the light nearly gone. Shadowsstretch long over the water, and the sounds of the lake shift—frogs, the low drone of insects, something rustling in the reeds. I row slower than I need to. I don’t say why, and Père doesn’t ask.
When the hull finally thuds against the soft shore, I rise first, step out into the shallows, and reach for his hand to steady him.
Père hesitates. Just for a breath. Then his fingers slide into mine.
It’s nothing, a small gesture. But the way he grips me, the way he holds on longer than necessary—that’snot nothing.
I don’t let go right away and neither does he.
When he finally looks up at me, the world stills. His eyes are unreadable but focused. It’s the first time he’s really lookedatme in days.
“Van,” he says again, and this time it’s not a warning or a question. It’s just my name, wrapped in something that feels terrifyingly likewant.
I step closer. Enough that I could kiss him. Enough that if he swayed even slightly forward, we’d cross that line without saying a word.
“You don’t want this,” I murmur. It’s not a challenge, just the truth, laid bare and trembling.
His breath catches. “That’s not—” He stops himself.
I wait but he doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t pull away either.
So I lift a hand, slow, deliberate, and lightly touch the corner of his jaw. Like I’m waiting for him to flinch.
He doesn’t.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
