The Spanish came fast and familiar, a tumble of syllables I was too tired to follow but didn’t need translated. The tone told me enough: relief threaded through with scolding, affection sharpened by fear that had already burned off.
Rios answered in kind, quieter, defensive but conceding ground. The exchange had the cadence of siblings who’d done this dance their whole lives.
Caroline exhaled through her nose and released me, already pivoting away. “Okay,” she said, brisk now. “Come on.”
She disappeared down the hall and returned almost immediately with her arms full. She set the stack on the chair beside the door and added a toiletry bag on top.
“These should work,” she said. “They’re clean. Bathroom’s up the stairs and down the hall. Towels are in the cabinet.”
I stared at the pile longer than made sense. Pajamas. A toothbrush. Ordinary things that suddenly seemed enormous because it came bundled with the reminder that I had nothing. Nothing of my own to change into. Nothing familiar to anchor me.
I shut that thought down immediately.
There would be time for grief later. Time to inventory loss and decide how to survive it. Right now, all I could manage was the present moment, and the present moment required oxygen and vertical posture.
“Thank you.” The word barely made it past my abused throat.
She waved it off like it was nothing, already moving again. “Take your time.”
Then she paused, glanced back at me, and something in her expression gentled with assurance. “You’re safe here.”
Rios opened his mouth.
Caroline cut him off without missing a beat.
“If you think either of you is going back to that boat, think again. Madden, you’re in the guest room. Rios, you’re?—”
“With her.” The words landed fast and solid, with no hesitation in them at all.
I opened my mouth. Closed it again.
Part of me wanted to protest. Another part—a quieter, more honest part—was already clinging to the idea like a life raft.
“I’ll take the floor. Nobody’s getting to you again.”
That did it. Whatever argument I might have mounted dissolved. The image of him between me and the rest of the world was so deeply comforting it almost hurt.
Caroline’s expression shifted into something thoughtful. Whatever opinions she had about this development, she kept them to herself. There was more bustling. Extra bedding pulled from a closet. Efficient, purposeful motion that communicated you are safe here now without requiring additional reassurance.
And then suddenly, impossibly, we were alone.
The guest room was dim and quiet, the air cool against my skin. Rios handed me fresh towels and the borrowed pajamas, along with the small collection of toiletries Caroline had assembled like a professional emergency responder.
“You go ahead and shower.” He nudged me gently toward the bathroom, as if momentum alone might keep me upright.
The water helped. For a little while, I lost myself in the mechanics of it—the simple act of standing still and letting warmth wash over skin that had been too close to fire. I focused on getting clean, on rinsing the smoke from my hair, on breathing through the lingering rasp in my chest.
I kept my brain turned off by force.
I knew it wouldn’t last. I knew the thoughts were waiting to devour me on the other side. But I clung to the reprieve with everything I had.
When I came out, Rios was already changed.
Pajama bottoms. Bare chest. Wet hair, proof he’d used another bathroom.
I deliberately did not stare.
Which, unfortunately, did nothing to stop my eyes from registering the sculpted lines of muscle, the strength of him rendered unguarded by the domesticity of the moment. The bandages on his arms helped. Visual punctuation marks reminding me why this wasn’t the time for anything but survival.
