He’s teaching them even now. How to fail without panic. How to stop when you don’t know the way.
Cristian nods once, satisfied. “Good,” he says simply. Then, quieter, “We worried.”
Mihai appears, checks him over—eyes tracking, questions answered clearly, pulse strong—efficient and quiet. When he finally steps back, satisfied, the air shifts. Water laps against hulls.
Kieran strips down to his shorts and rinses off in the river, mud and grit sluicing away. Water catches on the planes of his back, tracing muscle and movement.
I bring him a clean towel, and for a moment, I just hold it.
This is different from handing him water. Different from touching his forearm for five seconds.
This is choosing to put my hands on him. Even though it’s not necessary.
But it is. I need it like oxygen.
I step closer. Start with his shoulders. The towel moves over his skin, sun-hot and real.
His muscles tense under my touch. I feel it through thefabric—the instinct to move, to speak, to do something. But he doesn’t.
He holds still.
Lets me decide the pace.
I work slowly. Methodically. Down his arms. Across his back. The motion is practical but the meaning isn’t.
When I reach his ribs, his breath shifts, not dramatic, just deeper. More present.
He catches my wrist then. Not stopping me. Anchoring me. His fingers are warm and certain.
When I look up, his eyes are darker than I remember. Clear.
“You did exactly what you needed to do,” I say quietly.
Something in him settles.
“I remembered something you said,” he answers.
My hand is warm against his skin, heat pooling where we touch. “Oh?”
“About standing still.” A pause. Then, honest and unguarded, “I hoped you’d find your way back to me.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.
“It took me a while,” I say. “But I did.”
His mouth curves. I finish drying him off even though he doesn’t need it anymore.
Somewhere behind us, the Delta moves on—water flowing, reeds whispering, kids’ voices carrying across camp. The world didn’t stop because he was gone. It won’t stop because he’s back.
But something between us has shifted.
Not fixed. Not forgiven.
Just possible, if we don’t rush it.
45
RESONANCE (KIERAN)
