ALOE VERA AND COLD SHOWERS
ASHLEY
By the time I come out of the shower, in my shorty pajamas, toweling my hair dry, the sun is setting. Through the glass doors, I can see it sinking behind the rock formations and arches in the distance and… it’s breathtaking.
Still, it doesn’t hold my attention as much as the man standing in front of it.
Beckett’s leaning against the railing, a glass of wine in hand.
Bittersweet. That’s what this entire cruise is turning out to be.
Bittersweet.
He must hear me because he turns, the fading light spilling over his face before he steps inside.
Seeing him like this—barefoot, quiet—makes me wish I could just let go. Forget all the reasons I’m angry. Forget the way he made me feel small when I needed him to see me.
He sets his glass down and his gaze drifts down the length of me, slow and deliberate.
“You’re sunburnt,” he says.
“Just a little.” I tug at my strap, fingertips brushing the tender skin near my collarbone. “I wore sunscreen. I just didn’t expect to bake for five hours.”
I pluck a bottle of aloe vera from one of my bags, mostly just to give myself something to do with my hands.
“Shower’s free,” I point out unnecessarily, because apparently I’ve forgotten how to make conversation.
He smiles—small, lopsided. It’s a little apologetic, a little understanding, and just a little frustrated. His gaze flicks to the aloe, then to me.
“Turn around,” he says quietly, holding out a hand. “I’ll get your back.”
I could say no. Ishouldsay no.
But instead, I hand him the bottle.
Our fingers brush, linger—and that tiny, incidental touch feels like déjà vu.
When he steps closer, the air shifts.
Then, oh, so gently, he moves my damp hair over one shoulder. I shiver when his knuckles scrape my neck, and then again, when the cool gel touches my skin.
His touch is light but thorough, his palms spreading the aloe over my shoulders, then down between my shoulder blades. He’s giving this more attention than necessary, and I hate that it feels so good.
My breath catches. My heart pounds.
If I’d just been honest with Luna from the start. If I’d admitted to everyone—to myself—that Beckett and I were already falling apart, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here, tormenting myself with what I’m giving up. With what we’re both giving up.
To be fair, when I told him to come on the cruise, I hadn’t expectedthisBeckett.
I’d expected the broody, distant one. The Beckett who never looked up from his phone. The one who, at some point, stopped meeting my eyes.
That Beckett would’ve been easy to dismiss. Predictable.
Safe.
This one—quiet, attentive, careful with his hands—feels dangerous.
He drags his palms lightly down my back one last time, and then caps the bottle with a soft click. Before I can turn to face him, there’s a knock at the door.
