Chapter 22: Wet Reckoning
The dawn in Lisbon was a pale, watercolor thing, bleeding light over the rooftops. Aurora, jolted from a shallow sleep by insistent hands, found herself bundled into a hotel robe and whisked upwards in a silent elevator. “Callum, it’s five in the morning,” she mumbled, leaning into the solid warmth of him.
“Best time,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. He pushed open a heavy door marked ‘PENTHOUSE – RESTRICTED’, and the city air, cool and carrying the scent of baking bread and salt, hit her face.
The rooftop was a minimalist rectangle of dark tile, the pool a long, obsidian slash that caught the emerging light like a shard of mirror. It was utterly deserted, the city’s hum a distant, sleepy exhale. Neon signs from taller buildings winked off one by one.
Without a word, Callum dropped his robe. He stood for a moment, a silhouette against the pearly sky, all taut lines and effortless grace. Then he took two running steps and dove, slicing into the water with a clean, quiet splash. He surfaced halfway down the pool, shaking the dark water from his hair like a dog, and turned. A wicked grin split his face in the gloom.
“Your turn.”
Aurora clutched her robe closed.“Are you insane? It’s freezing. And I’m wearing…” She gestured vaguely at her oversized sleep shirt.
“Hence the ‘your turn’ part.” He began a slow backstroke, his movements creating lazy ripples.“Take it off. Or don’t. But get in.”
“This is how people get hypothermia, Nordskov. I read a book about a fisherman who—”
He disappeared under the surface. A second later, a strong hand closed around her ankle. She let out a yelp, which was cut short as he pulled, firm and unyielding. She hit the water with a tremendous, graceless splash.
The cold was a shock, a full-body gasp that stole the air from her lungs. The heavy, soaked cotton of her shirt and shorts immediately became a dragging weight. She flailed, surfacing, sputtering. “You bastard!”
He was right there, his body a solid wall of heat in the chill water. He caught her against the smooth tiles of the pool’s edge, his hands finding her hips through the sodden fabric. Her glasses were askew. He carefully removed them and placed them on the ledge, his movements surprisingly tender given the kidnapping.
“Now the whole world knows,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear. His voice was low, stripped of its usual public charm. It was just a raw, quiet thing between them in the vast, empty dawn. “But only I get to see you like this.”
The soaked shirt clung to every curve, transparent and heavy. His gaze was a physical touch, tracing the lines the water and fabric revealed. There was no teasing in it now, just a stark, hungry appreciation that made her shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold.
She pushed a clump of wet hair from her face, trying for indignation. “This is a twenty-euro shirt from a market. You’re ruining it.”
“I’ll buy you a hundred.” He leaned in, his nose skimming the sensitive skin below her jaw. “I’ll buy you the market.”
His lips found the pulse point in her throat. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a bite, a claiming pressure that made her knees go weak. She gasped, her hands coming up to grip his slick shoulders for balance. The water lapped around them, a private, liquid world.
“They have a name now, you know,” he said against her skin, his voice vibrating through her. “Elise put out a statement last night. ‘Aurora Bellweather, aspiring author.’ They’ll dig. They’ll find your dad, your university, the boring local paper piece you wrote about parish council funding.”
The words were a cold dart despite the heat of him. She’d seen her phone before he’d dragged her up here—a cascading nightmare of notifications. “WHO?” had been answered, and a hundred new questions had spawned.
“Let them dig,” she said, the defiance feeling thin. She tilted her head, granting him better access. “I’m just his neighbor. Who likes books. And has questionable judgment regarding early-morning swims.”
He lifted his head, his green eyes searching hers. The cocky footballer was completely absent. In his place was the man who’d looked at her in his kitchen that first time, wary and hoping. “Is it questionable?” he asked, his thumbs making small circles on her hips.
The truth was, it wasn’t. Here, suspended in the cool, dark water with the waking city sprawled below them, the scrutiny felt distant. Manageable. It was just physics: his hands on her, the press of his body, the way the water made every touch a slow, drifting revelation.
She shifted, wrapping her legs around his waist beneath the surface. The movement sent a cascade of ripples outward. A slow smile touched her lips, mirroring his earlier one. “My judgment is famously impeccable. I’m the one who analyzed your ninety-eighth percentile finish, remember?”
He groaned, a laugh mixed with frustration, and kissed her. It was a deep, consuming thing, tasting of chlorine and sleep and him. The water buoyed them, removing gravity, making it feel like they were floating in some silent, weightless orbit. Her fingers speared into his damp hair, holding him to her.
When they broke apart, breathing ragged, she rested her forehead against his. The sky was lightening to a proper blue. “They’ll want a picture,” she stated quietly. “A coupled one. Not just paparazzi grabs. They’ll want us posing, smiling. They’ll have opinions on my hair, my clothes, my… market shirt.”
He nodded, a short, grim movement. “They will. We can say no.”
“But we won’t,” she said. She knew it as she said it. It was the price. A controlled burn to try and manage the wildfire.
“No,” he agreed. He kissed her again, softer this time. “We won’t.” He slid his hands up her back, under the wreck of her shirt. “But right now, the only thing seeing you is the sun. And I plan on being very distracting before it gets too high.”
He proved thorough in his plan. The water, once shocking, became a sensuous medium. Every movement was slowed, every slide of skin against skin amplified by the liquid embrace. He took his time, mapping the territory of her body as the dawn bled into morning gold, his mouth and hands leaving trails of fire on her chilled skin. The world shrank to the sounds of their breathing, the lap of disturbed water, the distant, forgotten city.
Later, they lay tangled on a single lounger, wrapped in thick, sun-warmed towels as the first true heat of the day touched the tiles. Aurora’s head was on his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. Her wet clothes were in a heap nearby.
“My manuscript is due in nine weeks,” she said to his collarbone. The real world was seeping back in, but it felt different now. Sharper, but less frightening.
He ran a hand down her damp hair. “Then we go home tomorrow. You write.I train. We do the photo thing. We have dinner. We ignore the internet.”
“It sounds bizarrely normal.”
“It won’t be,” he said with utter certainty. “But we’ll pretend it is.” He shifted, looking down at her. “You can write in the stands at my training, if you want. No one will bother you there. You can analyze my first touch and tell me it’s adequate.”
She pinched his side, making him jump. “It’s a generous offer. I’ll consider it.”
Below them, the city was fully awake. Car horns, the distant shriek of a tram, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a soccer ball from a training ground a few streets over. The hum was no longer an exhale, but a demanding, vibrant shout.
Aurora closed her eyes, pressing her face into the warm skin of his chest. She held onto the memory of the weightless dark water, his hands the only anchor. It was a pocket of silence she knew she could return to, even when the noise became a roar. He was right. It wouldn’t be normal. But the choice, stark and clear as the morning light on the pool, was already made. She was in. Clothes, secrets, fears, and all.