I'm not thinking about it.
We reach the eastern shelf at four meters. The pickerel like to sit here in early afternoon. I signal the group to hold.
The pickerel oblige. Three large ones, drifting in the thermocline with the magnificent indifference of fish who’ve been doing this longer than anyone watching. Dave makes a gesture of profound reverence through his mask. Patricia’s husband takes approximately forty photos in thirty seconds.
I glance back to check formation.
Muir's watching the pickerel.
His face has that open quality he gets when he forgets to guard it. The way he used to look at me as if I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
My chest tightens. I force myself to look away, toward the visibility gradient near the rock face where the mussel colony's been establishing since April. Excellent news for the ecosystem survey. Perfectly legitimate reason to be looking in that direction.
Dave's fin catches Greg's shoulder.
Greg signalsokay?Dave signalssorry, my fin.
I move the group on.
When I glance back, Muir's running the rear formation check. Professional. Whatever was on his face a moment ago is gone.
Fine. Smooth.
Then we get to the surface, and Dave gets his tank caught on the dock railing. I don't know how. Physics shouldn't permit it. But there it is.
It takes both hands to untangle. Which means he has no hands for the ladder. Which means he starts to drift.
Muir's the closest. His arm goes under Dave's tank. Easy. Immediate. Holding him steady against the current while Dave sorts the tangle.
I'm right there with the swimmer line. I see it—water streaming off his shoulders, his arm flexed as he holds Dave without strain, and I have to force myself to look away.
“Got it!” Dave swings himself up with restored dignity. “Haha! Didn't see that coming. Thanks, man.”
“Current's tricky near the ladder,” Muir says.
His Scottish brogue rolls through the words like stones in a river, and I forget how to breathe. That voice. That accent emerging from someone who looks like he belongs on a California beach—the contrast so jarring it stops time for a moment.
I have to force myself to turn away, to hand Patricia her towel, to smile like my chest isn't tight.
I'm already turned away. Handing Patricia her towel. Smiling.
Rex meets my gaze with a cocked eyebrow that says everything while saying nothing.
I answer by lifting my own brow.
The damned man just grins like he won whatever bet he made with himself.
“Great dive,” I say. To the group. To everyone. “Dave, excellent buoyancy management. Greg, your compass work was solid. Patricia, your hover at the third ledge was textbook?—”
“Can I ask—?” Dave's already pulling out his waterproof notebook. “About the mussels near the eastern face? Are those part of the Natural Resources survey? Because I read that freshwater mussels are actually very important indicators of?—”
“I'll send you the survey documentation. Public access version on the Ministry of Natural Resources website. The researcher's Dr. Margaid Davis. She publishes seasonally.”
Dave pulls out his waterproof pen.
“You've got to be kidding me,” Rex says. Very quiet. Next to my ear.
“He loves information. Let him have the notebook.”