Page 103 of Lovers Like Us

My boots hit the dirt, a fire pit charred and extinguished. A full moon illuminates the mossy campground, only one other RV in sight. Trees rustle in a gust of wind, and the winter breeze cools meoff.

I scuff a stone and shuffle through my phone’s music. Nine Inch Nails.Play.Bass blasts in my eardrums, and the first song doesn’t end before the bus doors creakopen.

I overturn a large rock with my boot. Watching Maximoff step onto the earth like he’s mentally and physically prepared for anyhell.

Lips lifting, I pop an earbud out. “Miss mealready?”

He glares at the night sky. “God, spareme.”

I almost laugh. “Dramatic andinfatuatedwith me.” My smile grows but then slowly fades as seriousness hardens his forest-greens.

He stretches his arms over his chest. “You woke up in a coldsweat.”

See, I tried not to jostle him, but we slept in the same bunk. A confined single-bed. Our legs were intertwined. My jaw was on his chest. I was more surprised that he didn’t bolt upright instantly when Ileft.

“Bad dream,” I tell him and then study his shoulder as he rotates his arms. He’s not flinching or wincing. It’s healed better than I initially thought.Good.

I’m hoping he never needs a doctor again. Because he no longer has my father.That fuckingasshole…

“What was the dream?” Maximoff crosses the campground, opening and closing his switchbladeabsentmindedly.

I comb a hand through my hair. “You were drowning.”And I couldn’t save you.I breathe hot breath through my nose and rest my boot on a logbench.

Maximoff clicks his switchblade closed. Standing stoically, he reminds me of an unshakable marble statue again. A man who refuses to let anyone or anything topple him. At least not without putting up a hell of afight.

And I’m not surprised when he tells me, “That would never fuckinghappen.”

I toss my head from side-to-side, considering that. Something never happening is a spearfish becoming a horse. Of course people can drown. Shit, even Olympic swimmers can drown. But I can’t wade inside these fears or let them leech ontoMaximoff.

It was anightmare.

Notreality.

Our gazes catch in a forceful grasp. Not letting go. “You’re right,” I tell him. “You’re not drowning. Because you haveme.”

He pauses in thought. “I’d survive either way.” He gestures from my chest to his chest. “Between the two of us, I’m the trainedswimmer.”

I smile. “I meantmetaphoricallydrowning.”

He glowers. 2% amused, 98% irritated. I’m a 100% satisfied, and we unconsciously near. Our boots scuff the dirt andmoss.

“I’m not losing at anything,” he says, still trying to assureme.

I won’t say this out loud, but fuck, I agree—he’s capable of surviving 8 out of 10 scenarios. But I’m here for those 2 that he needs someone else. And hewill.

Hedoes.

He knows it too, but like me, those words rarely meet the air. I’d rather tease him for as long as I can, and he’d rather combatme.

“You’re not losing at anything,” I repeat his words and then say, “you’d lose to me in an MMA match in less than aminute.”

“Or I’d win,” herefutes.

I laughhard.

“I’m fucking serious.” He pockets his switchblade, standing about an arm’s length away. “Let’s see who’sbetter.”

I’ll have him on his back in less than two seconds. “Someone teach you? Because I know Ididn’t.”