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Her mouth curves faintly. "That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."

"It is."

She studies me for a second. "You didn't look thrilled when you saw it."

"No."

"Because it's bad?"

"Because it's accurate."

The smile fades.

I keep my eyes on the ceiling because that's easier than looking at her when I say the next part.

"I didn't like seeing myself through your eyes."

For a second, all she does is breathe against my chest.

Then she says, quietly, "I stopped painting after the accident."

I turn my head.

She's watching the sheet gathered in her hand, smoothing the fabric without really feeling it.

"It felt like wanting it again meant betraying her," she says. "My mom loved painting. It was hers before it was mine. After she died, every time I thought about starting again, it felt selfish. Like stepping back into the thing that made me most like her meant leaving her behind."

I say nothing.

Not because I don't care.

Because this is the kind of truth you don't interrupt.

She lets out a shaky breath. "I know that sounds irrational."

"It doesn't."

That gets her to look at me.

Something in her face softens.

After a moment, she asks, "Why swimming?"

I look back up at the ceiling.

"It was the first place my head ever got quiet," I say. "Everything else always meant something to someone. School. Tutors. Milestones. Dinners. Swimming didn't. It was just water and the next lap." I pause. "It still works better than anything else when my mind won't shut off."

Her fingers find mine on the sheet between us and thread through them.

I look down at our joined hands.

"I like you better when you're not trying to outrun yourself," she says softly.

I bring our hands to my mouth and press a kiss to her knuckles before letting them fall again.

She settles closer after that, resting her head back against my shoulder like there was never another place to be.

Outside, the sea keeps moving toward the shore in the dark.