For years, Dane barely spoke to me unless he had to. Now he’s carrying me around and leaving towels.
I shake my head and turn toward the water, not sure what to make of this version of him. Whatever’s going on, I can’t pretend I don’t like it.
The water is cooler than I expect when I step into the pool, and it sends a quiet shiver up my spine as I wade deeper. The heat of the day—and whatever’s left of the fever—fades the farther I go.
When the water reaches my waist, I sink down until it laps at my shoulders.
For a moment, I stand there. The ache in my leg eases, the tightness loosening little by little.
I duck under, letting the water wash over my head. When I come back up, damp strands of hair cling to my face and neck. I push them back and lean into the water, letting it take some of my weight while the dirt and sweat of the last few days rinse away.
By the time I step out, my body feels lighter than it has since the bite.
Almost like myself again.
I dry off, wrapping the towel around my shoulders as the last of the water drips from my arms. When I reach for my clothes, I stop. They’re filthy, stiff from sweat, and reek of it.
I stare at them for a moment, then it hits me—my clean clothes are still back at camp.
A quiet breath slips out as I shake my head. In my rush to wash off, it never even crossed my mind.
The thought of pulling them back on makes my stomach turn.
No. Not after finally feeling clean again.
I tighten the towel around myself, tucking it securely under my arms, then start back toward the shelter.
I smell it before I see him—coconut and crushed flowers.
Dane is crouched beside the fire pit, a pot set near the flames.
“What’s that?”
He glances at it. “It’s a pot of that infused water you like. I was just warming it up. Thought you might want to rinse your hair with it.”
I lean closer, breathing it in. It’s definitely coconut and the small pink flowers that grow along the ridge behind the lagoon.
My favorite.
I glance at him. “Did I smell that bad?”
A faint smile touches his mouth. “You weren’t your freshest. But I also thought this might help you feel better.”
I study him for a second, still a little thrown by his effort.
“I made it the way you do.”
“I see that.” A small laugh slips out. “I didn’t think you ever noticed.”
He looks up then. “I noticed.”
Those two words matter more than they should. And suddenly, I don’t know what to say.
“I made it after you left, thinking it could be a peace offering for when you came back. But you didn’t return.”
A peace offering. From him. The idea catches me off guard more than anything else he’s said. Dane doesn’t do things like that—doesn’t soften, doesn’t reach first. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know what it means.
“It’s been sitting for a few days,” he adds, almost like an afterthought. “Stronger than usual. I think you’ll like it.”
