The walk back is slow. Dane keeps pace with me, matching his stride to mine. He carries my bag of supplies, leaving me with only a plastic water bottle—and even that feels heavier than it should.
My leg still aches when I put my full weight on it. Not the sharp, burning pain from the bite. It’s more like a deep soreness that runs from my ankle into my calf.
Dane glances at me every few minutes. It’s subtle and easy to miss. But I don’t.
He notices when I favor one side, when my breathing shifts, or when I slow down.
“Are you all right?” It’s about the tenth time he’s asked.
“I’m fine.”
He doesn’t push. Just nods and keeps walking beside me. That, more than anything, feels strange.
The old Dane would’ve mouthed off with impatience in that clipped tone he used when he was annoyed. This version of him just remains patient.
And the silence between us isn’t the same anymore.
It used to feel dangerous, like something inside it might cut if you got too close. Now it’s different—cautious, almost hesitant, like we’re both circling something we don’t know how to navigate.
I still don’t fully remember the worst of the fever. Just fragments.
Heat. Darkness. The feeling of being held.
A voice that sounded like Dane’s, saying things he would never actually say.
Don’t leave me.
I can’t do this without you.
I love you.
Every time it comes back to me, it feels less like a memory and more like something I imagined. Because Dane doesn’t plead.
And he definitely doesn’t say he loves me.
I study him as we walk, trying to piece together what happened when he found me.
Something about him has shifted. He seems softer around the edges. Less guarded.
Maybe nearly dying changed something in both of us.
My foot catches on a root hidden beneath the sand. I stumble, probably more from fatigue than anything else. Dane is beside me in an instant, his hand closing around my elbow.
“Easy.”
Not long ago, he would’ve let me fall just to prove a point—and laughed while I picked myself back up.
“I’m fine.” But the strain in my voice tells a different story.
His gaze flicks over my face, then drops to my leg. “You’re limping more.”
“I can still walk.”
“You’ve been saying that for the last ten minutes.”
I pull out of his grip, trying to prove I can keep going on my own. My leg throbs in protest, and my breath catches before I can disguise it. “See? I’m fine.”
Dane’s expression shifts, but not into his usual irritation or frustration. It looks more like concern.
