It's quiet, almost too quiet now, and the only sound apart from the water lazily lapping at the intrusion of their bodies is their breathing, quickening and sharp. Beckett somehow manages to untangle her finger from her hair, letting her hand drift below the water's surface in the same beat that Castle cups her cheek in his hand.

He's too close for her to make an excuse, to laugh it off as some kind of play at humor, and she knows that even speaking at this point will cause her lips to brush against his with every syllable.

"Castle," she murmurs.