Page 23 of Dance Practice, Marooned: Part 2

He built me a shack.

For the first time since we got here, I look at him, really look at him, not through a haze of fear, lust or pain. He’s a disaster in the best possible sense. His beard has overtaken his jaw, flecked with gold where the sun caught the ends. His hair is longer and wild with salt and humidity, streaked slightly lighter in parts from the sun.

He’s shirtless, and his chest and arms have gone that gorgeous coppery brown from weeks of sun, muscles cut with shadows. There’s a shallow gash up his left bicep, half-healed, and a string of new bruises. Sweat has mapped dirty rivers between his ribs. The man looks like he could pick up the world, shake it upside down, and see what coins rattle loose.

He’s fucking perfection.

He kneels beside the bed and the smell of the jungle, smoke, and saltwater clings to him. For a second I hate the way it makes something in me leap. He puts a palm over my forehead, his eyes locked on mine. His hands are rougher after a month out here, but I don’t mind. His thumb traces my hairline, and for a second the world is silent.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he mutters, not quite looking at me. “Should have known you were too tough to go anywhere.”

I attempt a smile, my lips sticky and split. “Of course. I’m too stubborn to die.”

“Yeah,” he grunts, “no shit.”

His fingers pause at the base of my throat, like he just needs to confirm my heart is still beating somewhere in there. There’s a softness to him now, something I’ve never seen. Maybe I broke him a little, too. He rocks back on his heels, knees splayed and props his elbows on his thighs. He doesn’t move for a while, just watches me breathe. That’s when it hits me how deeply tired he is—not just physically, but in that way that a man gets when he’s forced to keep everyone else alive.

His voice is softer now, almost apologetic. “You need anything? Food, more water, just say the word.”

I swallow, wincing at the rawness in my throat. My stomach twists, hollow and desperate, but I have a better answer. “Right now, I would fucking kill for a hot shower.”

Ace tips his head back and laughs, an honest, wild sound. He looks at me like I’m the only real thing in the world. “I think I can help with that.”

Then, just like that, he’s gone.

But I am filled with a renewed hope.

5

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I gasp when I see Ace walk into the shack with a large bucket.

“I can’t give you a hot shower, but I can give you a hot sponge bath.”

My mouth opens, then closes, and I stare at him, not entirely sure what my next move is actually going to be.

“I’m not sayin’ I have to do it,” he goes on, “I just wanted to bring you some freshly boiled water, a clean cloth, and Aggie even managed to gather some soap so you can make bubbles.”

My heart.

It feels like it might explode.

My eyes burn, a mix of unshed tears and some serious dehydration.

This is the kindest gesture.

“Don’t go gettin’ glassy-eyed on me, sweetpea,” Ace murmurs. “You haven’t showered in days.”

A bubble of laughter leaves my throat, and I swipe a lone tear that rolls down my cheek. “It’s making sense now.”

He grins. “I have banned everyone from coming in here for at least an hour so you have time. I’ll be right outside.”

He leaves before I can say anything more, and I watch him go with tears in my eyes.

Our story might have started rocky, but slowly, I feel like it is all crumbling down to reveal an utterly beautiful mountain.

It takes me a minute to gather myself, and slowly, I sit up and shuffle out of bed. My body aches, and I feel exhausted even though I have done nothing but sleep. Staring down at the bucket of water, my body fills with a desperation to just climb in it and soak. I try to stand, but my head spins and I feel weak.

Shit.