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I smile. “Well. Your luck is signed.”

His fingers curl at his side. “It’s mine.”

“Not yet.” I turn the washer over once more. “Who carves his own name into his own luck?”

He gives me nothing. Not even a blink.

Who are you?

I set the cord back exactly where I found it, then drag out the rest of the inspection.

His spare shirt comes next. I unfold it, shake it out, and fold it again while he watches my gloves.

Near the bottom, I find a pair of boxer briefs, soft from too many washes.

I angle my shoulder between him and the rest of the camp before drawing them out. Whatever is in his pack is no longer anyone else’s business.

Smoothing the worn cotton over my glove, I take my time, rubbing the waistband between my thumb and forefinger. “You’re short on water purification for the days ahead.”

His pupils blow wide. Color climbs his throat as his gaze locks onto my hand. “I’ll...” He stammers, “I’ll manage.”

I fold the boxer briefs and set them back with the same care I gave the shirt, my cock already hard against my gear. Thank fuck for the storm cloak, because this blond angel is already driving me absolutely crazy, and I have no explanation for it.

I glance over the carefully arranged rows before zipping the pack. “You pack like someone who means to survive.”

“I plan to.”

I snort. “Yeah, you and the other four hundred people out there.”

He takes the pack from me with both hands.

“Except you’re already giving away your supplies.”

His eyes flick to the opened bandage roll.

“There was a girl.”

A girl. For some fucking reason, that annoys me immediately.

“Of course there was.”

“She hurt her ankle.”

I look at him for a second. Day one. A forest full of people who would happily put a knife in him for a place at a checkpoint, and my pretty little liar is stopping to bandage strangers.

I catch a raw scrape across the back of his hand, probably from the branches on the way down. Nothing serious, but enough that I take an antiseptic wound seal from my kit and hold it out.

He looks at it, then at me, the tip of his tongue flicking over his lower lip while he thinks.

My attention drops straight to his mouth. Fuck. I want to catch that tongue between my teeth and find out what other little habits fear brings out of him.

He still doesn’t take the seal.

I nudge it toward him. “Take it. It’s a wound seal, not a contract.”

He takes the applicator and spreads the seal over the scrape himself, then looks up when he finishes and meets my gaze through the visor.

“Thank you,” he says, barely getting the words out as he holds it back toward me.