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The water was a silent, enveloping heat, broken only by the constant, effervescent sigh of bubbles rising around us. We floated there, two silhouettes against the deep indigo sky, the sides of our heads pressed together. A track by The Weeknd spilled softly from a hidden speaker, its slow beat syncing with the shared rhythm of our breathing. This was the unspoken contract of our summers at Salt Burn: a haze of casual intimacy, of substances that softened edges, of nights that ended with us shedding our clothes and slipping into the vast, dark water of this tub. "Doesn’t it feel," I murmured, my voice barely disturbing the quiet, "like the entire world is holding its breath?"