“Yes, but I needed to confirm that myself.”
“Teacher habit?”
“Maybe.”
She smooths the bandage over my skin. Her fingers linger for half a second after it’s done, and then she lets go. I already miss her touch.
“Do you have a towel or anything?”
I turn toward the supply bin, grateful for something practical to do.
“There should be one in here.”
I find an old but clean towel sealed in plastic, plus a folded emergency blanket and the dry sweatshirt I keep here for exactly this kind of weather. Not this kind of situation. I’ve never been storm-trapped with a woman I nearly kissed beside a kayak rack and then almost kissed again in a waterfall pool.
I hand her the towel and sweatshirt.
“Here.”
She takes them.
“What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re shirtless and soaked.”
“I’ve been worse.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
Her eyes narrow. There she is again -- soft, curvy, nervous, and brave underneath all that politeness.
“Turn around,” she says.
I do. Behind me, fabric rustles. The towel moves over wet skin. I stare at a coil of rope like it holds answers to every problem in life.
“You know,” Layla says, her voice a little too bright, “this is exactly the sort of situation people warn divorced women about.”
I close my eyes. “Is it?”
“Oh, yes. Hidden waterfall. Sudden storm. Tiny cabin. Shirtless man.”
“You forgot younger.”
Silence. I shouldn’t have said it. The word sits between us, heavy.
Then she lets out a soft breath. “I didn’t forget.”
I turn my head slightly. “Does it bother you?”
“It should.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
More silence.
