I fist my hands. “Do you need help?”
“No.”
I take a deep breath, looking around for ideas on what to say. “Is there anything you need me to bring inside?” Sometimes he has pastes or seaweeds drying out.
“I’ve done it.” I wouldn’t say his tone is dismissive, but it’s definitely not suggesting he wants to keep talking.
I wipe my clammy hands on my soaked shirt. “I’ll, uh, make dinner so I don’t need to leave the cave once the storm hits.”
“It is already made.”
“Oh.” We take turns cooking. He likes to watch and learn, but he also likes surprising me. Or, at least, I think he likes it. Ordus usually hands the plate to me, face devoid of emotion, and grunts when I say thanks.
Once we’ve cleaned up after dinner, he leaves me to my own devices and only seeks me out when it's time for bed, when he wordlessly pulls me into his arms, and it becomes a race to see who falls asleep first—usually Vasz. He might be a little thing, but he can shake the walls with his snoring.
I clear my throat. “I’ll just…have a bath, then.”
“No.”
I frown. “Why not?” He’s usually very probathing, because I’m a lot happier when I can’t feel grime and saltwater sticking to my skin.
He finally—finally—looks at me. “Eat first. I want to show you something.”
I do as he says, mind whirling with possibilities. Maybe he hauled a water tank from the mainland, or a box ofKacangDisco. Or he could’ve stolen the solar panels I previously mentioned wanting—he does stuff like that very often. He might not talk or look like he’s interested, but he listens to every word I say.
I once asked if it were easy to catch crab or squid, if he’s ever tried human meat like chicken. The next day, he came back from hunting with both. A week later, I saw a chicken roaming around the island.
Now I am the mother of eight chickens, craned to me by boat in the dead of night, and much to Ordus’ confusion, I can’t bring myself to do more than cook their eggs.
Ordus says nothing when he shows up midway through my meal. I’m camped out in the chair he made, staring out the window. It’s too windy to sit outside only in my swimsuit and rash shirt.
Once I finish, I follow him silently through the tunnel into the main cavern, the stray tentacle wrapped around my waist in case I trip—a common occurrence. Ordus and I have begun planting the glowing algae along the channel walls so I’m no longer going in blind. The light is still faint, but it’s miles better than it used to be.
He leads me to the pool, where he holds his hand out for me to take, the one with the green scrunchie on it. If I didn’t know better, it looks like a seaweed bracelet.
Pensive excitement soars through my veins. He acknowledges me so little that in the dead of night, when it’s time to creep into our bed of moss, a needy bud comes to bloom at the knowledge I’ll be in his arms. That when he touches me, it won’t hurt. When he trails a finger down my arm, the goosebumps aren’t out of trepidation, but the ecstasy of being recognized as a being beyond skin and bone.
Ordus thinks I don’t know he stares at me before he falls asleep, that he presses his nose close to my hair and takes four deep breaths as his eyes drift shut.
But I do.
Every night, I let myself fall for the delusion that fate and magic don’t have anything to do with his interest in me. That whatever this is between us is more than physical. I…I want him to open up to me.
“Where are we going?” I hesitate, glancing between him and his outstretched hand.
“We will stay on the island.” His face is impassive; it always is nowadays. I hate it.
It doesn’t make me uncomfortable, not the way Tommy’s blank face did. This just kind of—hurts?
I brush my fingers over his calluses, watching as his hand dwarfs my own. His skin pulses different colors with his shudder. Tugging, I inch toward him, gnawing on the inside of my cheek while he reaches for me, curling his arm around my waist to hold me to him. I wrap my legs around him and try not to think about how his abs contract against my core.
Ordus’ fingers weave into my matted, postsurf hair to tuck my head against the crook of his neck, and I let him. I melt into him, breathe him in, soak up every inch of his warmth to fill the empty space in my heart where my loneliness grows.
His thumb snakes beneath the sliver of skin between my rash shirt and the top of my bikini bottoms. It stays there, a threat and a temptation all in one.
The silky strands of his raven hair twine and thread between my fingers as I cradle the base of his skull. A strained purr rumbles to life in his chest. The buzzing in my veins heats at the way his muscles ripple beneath my touch. Feminine satisfaction sends a bolt of desire right to my core that I can have such a profound impact on him from such a mundane motion.
Sometimes, at night, when I dare let myself dream of something good, I replay all the times I’ve watched him stare at his scrunchie. I want to do it again. I want to braid his hair so he’s moving through space with my touch evident on him—as a reminder to the both of us that my touch doesn’t need to hurt either.
