I don’t look away.
Neither does she.
She steps out of the rest of her clothes and pauses there for a second, studying herself properly. Her hand drifts to her stomach. It’s flat again, her outer body carrying no visible sign that Connor was ever there, even though the mark he left on her heart will never disappear.
For a moment she goes somewhere else entirely. Somewhere painful.
Then she looks back at me. “Your turn.”
I pull my shirt off, and her gaze moves over me. My body looks exactly like what the island made it—lean and solid, built from years of carrying, climbing, building, surviving.
We step into the shower together the same way we’ve done everything else for years now—side by side.
The hot water hits immediately. Charlotte goes still under it for a second, eyes closing as it runs over her shoulders and through her hair. I watch the reaction move across her face, the almost overwhelming shock of simple comfort after so many years without it.
“This is—” she starts, then shakes her head slightly. “There isn’t even a word for this.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah.”
She reaches for the shampoo, but I catch her hand before she can take it.
“Let me.”
She studies me for a second, then nods once. “Yeah… okay.”
“Turn around.”
She does.
I step in behind her and work the shampoo slowly through her hair. The scent fills the steam around us almost immediately—clean and floral and almost overwhelming after years of going without anything like it.
Her eyes close as my fingers move across her scalp in slow circles.
“Feels good?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah,” she says. “Really good.”
I keep going, working through the length of her hair before tipping her head back beneath the spray to rinse it clean.
When I finish, she turns slightly toward me. “Can I wash yours?”
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “Please.”
She reaches for the shampoo bottle.
“You need a haircut,” she tells me while working the shampoo into her hands.
“Only if you’re the one doing it,” I say. “Not letting anyone else near it.”
A small smile touches her mouth. “I will. I always will.”
Charlotte works the shampoo into my hair, fingers moving through it before pressing lightly against my scalp. I go still beneath her hands almost immediately.
She takes her time. When she rinses the shampoo away, the water carries the foam down over my shoulders.
Neither of us steps back afterward.
I turn toward her fully, water running down my face, and she reaches up automatically to push the wet hair back from my eyes. Mine close briefly at the touch. When I open them again, her hand is still there against my cheek.
