A few drops slide down my face, and he brushes them away with his thumb. The touch is brief, barely there, but something in my chest pulls tight.
I glance up at him. His hand stills in my hair as our eyes meet. For a second, neither of us moves. Something shifts in his expression—something I can’t quite place. Then he clears his throat and reaches for the pot again, like the moment didn’t happen at all.
When I shift, my leg protests, and my balance tips just enough in the wrong direction. Before I can catch myself, his arm wraps around me. My back presses against his chest as he steadies me.
It only lasts a second—maybe two—but I’m suddenly aware of how close he is, how easily he caught me, the solid warmth of him, the way his body fits against mine.
My heartbeat kicks.
“You’re still a little unsteady.”
He lets go as soon as I’m upright again. I pull away a little too fast, tucking damp hair behind my ear.
“I’m fine.”
He pours another shellful of water over my hair, his fingers moving through it again with the same quiet care. And somehow that makes it worse because now I can’t stop noticing everything.
Heat creeps up my neck. Because this is ridiculous.
He’s been decent to me for a few days, and suddenly my brain decides to spin it into something else. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
I stare at the sky, trying to ignore the way my pulse won’t settle.
It doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Chapter 6
Dane Gallagher
The fire has burneddown to embers, the glow still visible through the gaps in the shelter wall. It brightens and fades with the wind.
Beyond that, the jungle moves in its usual night rhythm—leaves rustling, insects humming, something moving through the undergrowth before going still again.
I lie back, staring at the palm roof overhead.
Sleep should have come hours ago. I’m exhausted, every muscle worn down from the last few days. But every time I start to drift, something in me snaps awake again.
So I stay where I am, one arm tucked beneath my head, listening to the island instead.
Charlotte is on the other side of the divider. It’s nothing more than woven palm leaves stretched over a rough frame—privacy in theory more than reality. I hear her breathing, slow and even, and a faint rustle when she moves.
Those sounds shouldn’t catch my attention anymore. We’ve slept like this for years, only a few feet apart, separated by a wall too thin to hide much of anything.
Tonight, it’s different.
Everything is.
I close my eyes, and I’m right back there—finding her half-conscious, her skin too hot and too pale at the same time, her pulse barely fluttering under my fingers like it might disappear entirely.
My chest tightens, and I open my eyes again, focusing on the roof.
Charlotte breathes in, then out. The sound carries through the wall and settles somewhere deeper than it should, pressing against something I don’t want to think about too closely.
What I’m feeling should be relief. But it’s not. It’s more than that.
A few days ago, I could still pretend I didn’t understand what this is—call it guilt, responsibility, or habit. Maybe even some warped instinct to protect what I resented.
