Chapter Text
The pavement is rough under my bare feet. Each step sends sharp jolts of pain up through my heels, my arches, the balls of my feet. I feel every pebble, every crack in the sidewalk, every piece of gravel embedded in the concrete. My soles are probably bleeding. I don't care. I don't slow down.
My lungs are burning. I'm not a runner. I've never been a runner. My chest feels like it's being crushed, like someone is squeezing my ribcage with both hands, forcing the air out faster than I can pull it back in. My throat is raw. My legs are screaming. My pajama top is soaked with sweat, clinging to my skin, the fabric heavy and uncomfortable.
I turn the corner onto Ben's street and the scene hits me like a wall.
Police cars. At least six of them, parked at angles across the street, their lights flashing red and blue in the afternoon sun. Yellow tape stretched between trees, creating a perimeter around Ben's front lawn. Crowds of people pressed against the barriers, at least a hundred of them, maybe more. Phone cameras held high, recording everything. News vans parked on the opposite side of the street, satellite dishes extended, reporters speaking into microphones with serious expressions.
And above it all, the helicopter. Circling. The sound of its rotors cutting through the air, a constant rhythmic thump that vibrates in my chest. I can see the camera mounted on its side, pointed down at the lawn, at the bathtub, at Ben.
At Ben.
He's there. In the center of it all. Sitting in a white porcelain bathtub on his front lawn, water filled to his shoulders, wearing that black and white tuxedo. His eyes are closed. His head is tilted back slightly. His hair is wet, plastered to his forehead. The fabric of the tux clings to his body, dark and heavy with water.
He looks like he's already drowned.
I push through the crowd. People are packed tight, shoulder to shoulder, everyone trying to get a better view, everyone filming, everyone talking. I shove between them, my bare feet stepping on shoes, on grass, on discarded water bottles. Someone yells at me. Someone else grabs my arm. I tear free and keep moving.
"Miss, you can't go past the tape." A police officer steps in front of me, his hand raised. He's young, maybe mid-twenties, with a concerned expression that suggests he thinks I'm another crazy fan trying to get close to the hero having a breakdown.
"I need to get to him," I say. My voice comes out hoarse, breathless, desperate. "I need to see Ben."
"Miss, I understand, but this is a restricted area. We're trying to give Mr. Tennyson some space while we figure out what's going on."
"You don't understand." I'm crying now. When did I start crying? Tears are streaming down my face, hot and fast, blurring my vision. "I need to get to him. Please. Please let me through."
"Are you family?" the officer asks, and something in his tone softens slightly.
"Yes," I say immediately. "I'm his cousin. Gwen. Gwen Tennyson. Please, I need to see him."
The officer hesitates. He looks over his shoulder at Ben in the bathtub, then back at me. He takes in my pajamas, my bare feet, my tear-streaked face, my complete lack of composure. He makes a decision.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay, go ahead."
He lifts the yellow tape and I duck under it, my feet hitting the grass of Ben's front lawn. The grass is soft, cool, damp from the garden hose that's still lying coiled near the bathtub. I can smell it. Fresh cut grass and water and something else, something chemical, maybe from the bathtub itself.
The crowd noise fades to a dull roar behind me. The helicopter is louder now, closer, the sound of its rotors drowning out everything else. I can feel the downdraft, the way it pushes against my body, makes my pajama top flutter, sends my hair whipping around my face.
I walk toward the bathtub. Each step feels surreal, dreamlike, like I'm moving through water myself. The distance between me and Ben seems impossibly long and impossibly short at the same time. Ten feet. Five feet. Three.
I stop at the edge of the bathtub.
Up close, he looks worse. His skin is pale, almost gray. There are dark circles under his eyes, purple bruises of exhaustion and pain. His lips have a faint blue tinge from the cold water. The tuxedo is completely soaked, the fabric clinging to every line of his body, outlining his chest, his shoulders, his arms. I can see the shape of him through the wet clothes, can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath.
His eyes are still closed. He hasn't opened them. Hasn't acknowledged my presence. For a terrible moment I think maybe he doesn't know I'm here, maybe he's too far gone, maybe I'm too late.
"Ben," I say. My voice cracks on his name.
His eyes open.
Green. Those beautiful green eyes that I've been seeing in my dreams for three days, that I've been trying not to think about, that I've been drowning in since last summer. They focus on me slowly, like he's coming back from somewhere very far away. Like he's surfacing from deep water.
"Gwen," he says. His voice is rough, hoarse, barely audible over the helicopter. "You came."
"Of course I came," I say, and I'm crying harder now, tears streaming down my face, my whole body shaking. "Of course I came, you idiot. What are you doing? What is this?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He just looks at me, his eyes moving over my face, taking in my pajamas, my bare feet, my complete dishevelment. Something shifts in his expression. Something that might be relief or might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely.
"I couldn't do it anymore," he says finally. "Couldn't pretend. Couldn't keep it inside. Couldn't exist in a world where you walked away from me."
"So you stole a bathtub and sat in it on your front lawn on live television?" My voice is rising, hysteria creeping in at the edges. "That was your solution?"
"I needed you to see," he says simply. "Needed you to understand what you did to me. What walking away did to me."
The words hit me like a slap. Because he's right. This is my fault. This public breakdown, this spectacle, this drowning in front of cameras and crowds and helicopters. I did this to him when I chose duty over desire, when I walked away three days ago, when I left him standing on that street.
"Ben," I whisper. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry," he says. "Just don't leave again."
The helicopter circles lower. I can hear the crowd behind me, their voices rising, people shouting questions, reporters narrating the scene. I can feel the weight of all those eyes on us, all those cameras recording this moment, broadcasting it live to who knows how many people.
And suddenly I understand. This isn't just a breakdown. This is a declaration. This is Ben making our relationship public in the most undeniable way possible. This is him forcing my hand, making it impossible for me to walk away again, because now everyone will know. Everyone will see. There will be no hiding, no pretending, no going back to the way things were.
But I don't care. I don't care about any of it. All I care about is that Ben is here, that he's alive, that he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"I won't leave," I say.
"Say it," he says. His eyes are intense, burning into mine. "Say what you wouldn't say three days ago."
My heart is pounding so hard I think it might break through my ribs. My hands are shaking. My whole body is trembling with cold and fear and something else, something that feels like freedom, like surrender, like finally letting go of all the reasons why this is wrong and just accepting what is.
"I love you," I say. The words come out clear and strong despite the tears, despite the shaking, despite everything. "I love you, Ben. I've always loved you. I'm in love with you."
Something breaks in his expression. The careful control he's been maintaining shatters and what's underneath is raw and desperate and so full of emotion it makes my chest ache.
"Get in," he says.
"What?"
"Get in the bathtub with me."
I should say no. I should be rational. I should remember that we're on live television, that there are cameras everywhere, that this will be recorded and broadcast and saved forever. I should think about consequences, about our families, about what this means.
But I don't. I don't think about any of it.
I step into the bathtub.
The water is freezing. It soaks through my pajama pants immediately, the cold shocking against my skin. I lower myself down, my legs folding, my body sinking into the water until I'm sitting across from Ben, our knees touching, the water up to my chest.
He reaches for me immediately. His hands find my waist, pulling me forward, pulling me onto his lap. I go willingly, straddling him, my legs wrapping around his waist, my arms going around his neck. The wet tuxedo is rough under my hands, the fabric heavy and cold, but underneath I can feel the warmth of his body, the solid reality of him.
"Gwen," he breathes, and then his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is desperate. Hungry. Nothing like the tentative kiss in his bedroom three days ago. This is raw need, pure desire, three days of separation and pain and longing compressed into this single moment. His lips are cold from the water but his tongue is hot, pushing into my mouth, claiming me, devouring me.
I kiss him back with everything I have. My hands tangle in his wet hair, pulling him closer, deeper. I can taste him. Water and something else, something uniquely Ben, something I've been craving without admitting it. My body presses against his, my chest against his chest, my hips grinding down against his lap.
I feel him respond. Feel him harden beneath me even through the layers of wet fabric. The knowledge sends heat flooding through my body despite the cold water, makes me moan into his mouth, makes me press harder against him.
His hands slide up my back, under my wet pajama top, his fingers splaying across my bare skin. They're warm, so warm, and I arch into his touch, wanting more, needing more. One hand moves higher, fingers brushing the side of my breast, and I gasp, breaking the kiss, my head falling back.
"Ben," I moan, and his mouth moves to my neck, kissing, sucking, biting gently at the sensitive skin. His other hand grips my hip, holding me against him, guiding my movements as I rock against his lap.
I'm dimly aware of the crowd. The noise has changed, gotten louder, more frantic. People are screaming, shouting, some in shock, some in excitement, some in outrage. The helicopter is still circling, still filming. The cameras are still recording. Everyone is watching us make out in a bathtub on live television.
And I don't care. I don't care about any of it.
Ben's mouth finds mine again and I lose myself in the kiss, in the feeling of his body against mine, in the way his hands move over my skin like he's trying to memorize every inch of me. The water sloshes around us, spilling over the sides of the bathtub, soaking into the grass. My pajamas are completely drenched, clinging to my body, and I can feel everything. The hard planes of his chest. The strength in his arms. The way his hips move beneath me, pressing up, seeking friction, seeking more.
I want more. I want everything. I want to tear off these wet clothes and feel his skin against mine. I want to sink down onto him right here, right now, in front of everyone. I want to make him mine in the most primal, undeniable way possible.
But some small part of my brain that's still functioning reminds me where we are. What we're doing. Who's watching.
I break the kiss, pulling back slightly, both of us breathing hard. Ben's eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. His lips are swollen, red from kissing. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful.
"We should stop," I whisper, though every cell in my body is screaming the opposite.
"No," he says firmly. His hands tighten on my waist. "No more stopping. No more walking away."
"Ben, everyone is watching."
"Good," he says. "Let them watch. Let them see. Let everyone know that you're mine and I'm yours and nothing else matters."
The words should scare me. Should make me panic. Should make me realize what we're doing, what this means, how there's no going back from this moment.
But they don't. They make me feel safe. They make me feel claimed. They make me feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
"I love you," I say again, because I need him to hear it, need him to know it, need to say it as many times as possible to make up for the three days I spent denying it.
"I love you too," he says. "I've loved you for so long, Gwen. So fucking long."
He kisses me again, softer this time, slower, like we have all the time in the world. Like we're not sitting in a bathtub on his front lawn surrounded by police and crowds and news cameras. Like this is normal, like this is right, like this is exactly how it's supposed to be.
And maybe it is. Maybe this is our normal. Maybe this is our right. Maybe love doesn't follow the rules everyone else thinks it should follow.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard, both of us soaking wet, both of us completely exposed in every possible way.
"What happens now?" I ask quietly.
"Now?" Ben's hands move up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that are still streaming down my cheeks. "Now we figure it out together. Now we stop hiding. Now we stop pretending. Now we just... be."
It sounds so simple when he says it like that. Like it's not complicated, like there aren't a thousand obstacles in our way, like we're not cousins who just made out on live television in front of the entire world.
But maybe it is that simple. Maybe it's always been that simple and I've been the one making it complicated, making it impossible, making it wrong.
"Okay," I say. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay," I repeat. "We figure it out together."
The smile that breaks across his face is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Pure joy. Pure relief. Pure love. He pulls me into another kiss, this one celebratory, triumphant, like we've won something, like we've conquered something, like we've finally broken through to the other side.
The crowd erupts. I can hear them cheering, screaming, some in support, some in shock, some in disgust. The helicopter circles lower, the camera zooming in, capturing every moment, every angle, every detail of this scene.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, in a place I'm not quite ready to examine, a small voice whispers that this was always going to happen. That Ben knew I would come. That he knew I wouldn't be able to stay away. That he knew putting himself on display like this, making himself vulnerable like this, would force my hand, would make it impossible for me to choose duty over desire again.
But I push that voice away. Because it doesn't matter. Because even if it's true, even if Ben planned this, even if he knew exactly what he was doing when he sat in this bathtub in his prom tuxedo and waited for me to come running, it doesn't change how I feel. It doesn't change the fact that I love him. It doesn't change the fact that I'm choosing him, choosing this, choosing us.
And maybe that's what love is. Maybe love is choosing someone even when you know they've manipulated the situation, even when you know they've forced your hand, even when you know there's no going back.
Or maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe this is just what it looks like. A boy who loves a girl so much he breaks down publicly. A girl who loves him back enough to run to him barefoot through the streets. Two people who can't stay away from each other no matter how hard they try.
Maybe it's that simple.
Maybe it's that complicated.
Maybe it's both.
Ben's arms wrap around me, holding me close, and I let myself sink into his embrace. The water is still cold but I don't feel it anymore. All I feel is him. All I feel is us. All I feel is this moment, this choice, this surrender.
Behind us, I hear car doors slamming. Voices shouting. Someone is probably calling our parents. Someone is probably calling the authorities. Someone is probably already writing articles, creating hashtags, turning this into a scandal that will follow us for the rest of our lives.
But right now, in this moment, in this bathtub, with Ben's arms around me and his heart beating against mine, none of it matters.
Right now, we're just two people in love.
And that's enough.
That has to be enough.
We're in this together now.
For better or worse.
Forever.
The end