Page 22 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
Like he knows exactly what he just did.
A breath leaves me, shaky, heat flooding higher, sharper, because he remembers.
Ten years and it’s still right there, sitting between us, waiting for the smallest crack to push through.
I bite the inside of my cheek, dragging the paddle through the water again, forcing myself back into sync with him, matching his pace even as my body hums with something I can’t quite shut down.
“That’s it,” Noah mutters, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “Just like that.”
My stomach tightens. Because this time, there’s no mistaking it. He knows exactly how that sounds.
And he said it anyway.
We skim past the first buoy. His shoulders shift, and he glances back at me. It’s just a flicker, but in that half-second, I catch it. The ghost of a grin. A look that saysthere you are.
My stomach flips.
It's not just the race. It's the recognition. The way his whole body seems to exhale when we finally fall into sync, like some part of him has been holding its breath for a decade waiting for exactly this.
My grip tightens on the paddle. My chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with exertion.
I don't dare hold his gaze, afraid he'll see everything I'm feeling written all over my face.
But I don't have to look to know he feels it, too.
His strokes grow sharper. Steadier.
And suddenly, I don't care if we win this damn race. I just want to keep moving with him like this—finding our rhythm again, heat simmering just beneath the surface, something old and unfinished stirring back to life.
Chapter 6
The Fire Between Us
I mirror Noah,and something clicks. The boat steadies. We're still trailing, but no longer flailing like drunk toddlers in a bathtub.
"That's it," he says. "You've still got good form."
The praise hits harder than it should. My chest tightens, something fluttering loose in my stomach.
We round the first buoy with only a minor overcorrection, and as we straighten out, I glance at him—face set in concentration, arms flexing with each stroke, his wet shirt clinging to every defined line of his torso.
He glances back, catching me staring.
"Eyes on the water, Bennett."
His tone is sharp. But beneath it, the corner of his mouth curves—just barely.
And just like that, we're moving together. Not perfectly. But for the first time in years—in a decade—we're in sync.
"We're definitely not winning," I pant, grinning.
Noah smirks. "But we're not sunk yet."
Except... we are.
The turn around the floating stage is tight. Too tight. I try to compensate with a hard stroke on the right, but overcorrect and shift too far forward in my seat.
"Riley—wait?—"
