Her voice is hoarse.
I nod once and still can’t look at her.
I grab another towel for myself, dragging it roughly through my hair, buying time. Buying distance.
When I glance up again, she’s shivering.
The adrenaline is gone now. Reality is back.
Without thinking, I step closer again.
She looks up at me, uncertain.
I hesitate for half a second, then lift my own towel and drape it over her shoulders, wrapping it tightly around her.
“You’ll get sick,” I say, forcing my voice into something practical. Something safe. “Dry off.”
It comes out quieter than I expect. Softer.
She nods. “Okay.”
We stand there for another second.
Too close. Too aware. Too everything.
I step back.
Distance. I need distance.
She walks slowly to one of the lounge chairs and lowers herself onto it, wrapping both towels tighter around her body. Her movements are slower now, like her mind hasn’t fully caught up with her body.
I sit down beside her. The silence stretches between us.
She lets out a nervous laugh.
I glance at her. “What?”
She shakes her head, staring at her hands. “Nothing.”
I wait.
She exhales. “This is insane.”
I let out a breath through my nose. “Yeah.”
Neither of us argues.
Because there’s no version of reality where this isn’t insane.
She looks over at me then.
Really looks.
Her hair is damp, clinging to her shoulders. Her lips are swollen. Her cheeks flushed.
She looks like someone I shouldn’t touch again.
And someone I don’t trust myself to stay away from.
