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And because the same is true for me—

We've missed all the time we lost together.

My hand falls behind me as I take a step back, forcing him further into the stream.

Jace freezes as I wrap my fist around him, leaning forward, using my free hand to grab the wall again.

"Lenny," he murmurs, his palm moving from my center to the spot between my shoulders. He drags his fingertips down the length of my spine, raking through the water pooling there.

His hands slide over my hips as I guide him toward me, and he bends to press a gentle kiss to the back of my shoulder. Water runs between us, our skin slick against each other as we stand pressed together.

"Thank you," he says, straightening again.

I reach between us, lining him up with the place that's already aching for him.

"For what?" I pant.

"For coming tonight."

With that, he pushes forward, filling me slow and deep until there's nowhere left for him to go. My hands brace against the tile, his grip tightening on my hips as the water lands around us.

Maybe it's his words alone. Maybe it's the quiet gratitude in his voice. But his answer cracks something open in my chest.

He moves behind me, sinking deeper, and my eyes burn unexpectedly.

Tears.

"I should have always been there," I whisper.

The words spill out as easily as the water pouring over us.

Effortless. Unstoppable.

But it's the next words I swallow back down.

I want to always be here.

Not for three weeks.

For… ever.

I almost say it, but I don't.

Jace's movement slows. It doesn't stop entirely, but it's enough to feel the shift.

He drops his hand from my hip, flattening it against my stomach like he's holding us together. "You're just now figuring that out?"

There's a hint of teasing in his voice, but the way he presses a kiss to my shoulder—his lips lingering as he exhales a breath—says something else entirely.

I close my eyes and lean back into him, letting his arm stay wrapped around me, steadying us beneath the rush of water.

Close enough that I can almost pretend the current isn't trying to drag us away.

Like otters floating, fingers interlocked so we don't drift from each other.

Not now, at least.

Not yet.