Chapter 17
Seventeen
Liz
Alaric and I managed the conference day together, but after we return to the room at the end of the day, I don’t sleep well.
Every time I drift off, I wake again—too warm, too aware of the space beside me.
It’s ridiculous. Unlike the previous evening, we didn’t even touch.
But knowing he was there, close enough to hear him breathe, messed with me.
Last night, I told myself I was fine with it.
That great sex was great, and it didn’t mean anything.
But lying there in the dark, I kept wondering if I wanted it to.
The thought looped relentlessly. Wanting more from Alaric is dangerous, and I know better than to rewrite our past into something it wasn’t.
Still, the sound of his breathing and the weight of his presence blurs lines I promised myself I’d keep clear.
I have to remember that this isn’t just about wanting him or not. It’s about wanting something steady, and I’ve already learned he can disappear without warning.
Light slips through the curtains before either of us says anything.
I’m already awake, so I rise and get ready, as does he.
Eventually, I sit on the edge of the bed, debating whether brushing my hair twice will make me look more awake.
He’s already dressed, shirt half-buttoned, dark circles under his eyes.
He glances at me. “You look like you slept about as well as I did.”
I arch a brow. “So…not at all?”
“Maybe an hour,” he admits, tugging at his cuff. “Turns out sharing a bed with a pillow wall to cuddle isn’t exactly restful.”
I shoot him a look. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”
He pauses, his tea halfway to his mouth. “Do I?”
“Yeah. Something about statistical variance and emotional boundaries.”
He gives a dry laugh. “That tracks.”
I stand and reach for my sandals. “For the record, you also hog the blanket.”
“I was defending myself,” he says, deadpan. “You kept stealing it.”
“Because you built a fort with it,” I say, crossing my arms.
His mouth lifts, that hint of a smile I both love and hate. “Well, it worked. Mostly.”
I grab my bag and nod toward the door. “Breakfast?”
He opens it for me, still smiling. “If the caffeine’s as strong as the hotel Wi-Fi, maybe we’ll survive the day.”
Downstairs, the banquet room smells like burned toast and coffee. Rows of silver trays line the counter, full of lukewarm eggs and something pretending to be sausage. At least there’s fresh pineapple juice.
“I’m going to miss this juice when we get back home.”
Alaric nods. “It’s not the same when it’s not fresh.” He leans against the buffet with a plate in one hand, scrolling through his phone with the other. His Hawaiian shirt shows off his biceps, and for some reason, I can’t stop noticing.
We end up at a small table by the window, sunlight making the white tablecloth glow. Outside, palm trees sway while a few other early risers with conference badges wander toward the shuttle stop.
“You still up for the tour to Waimea Falls this afternoon?” he asks.
“Yes. I can’t wait. The tour should take us places I didn’t get to on my own.” I spear a piece of pineapple. “You?”
He nods. “Looking forward to it.”
“Okay then,” I say, standing. “I’ll meet you in the lobby after our session.”
We head in different directions, and I try to focus on why I’m here.
After a session I nearly napped through, Alaric and I meet in the lobby again.
“How was yours?” he asks.
“It was okay.” I glance around, making sure no one’s listening. “Pretty boring. What about yours?”
He grins. “The same. Someone actually fell asleep. When the presenter asked if he was boring, the guy blamed jet lag.”
I laugh, shaking my head as we make our way out to the bus. The air smells like ocean and plumeria, warm enough to cling to my skin.
The bus is small, its paint fading under the Hawaiian sun. I climb aboard and slide into a window seat halfway back. Alaric follows a minute later and sits beside me. He doesn’t ask—just sits, his knee brushing mine as he tucks his bag under the seat. The bus feels even smaller.
“You could’ve sat anywhere,” I say as the engine roars to life. There are others on the bus, but it’s far from full.
He tips his head toward the window. “And miss the commentary?”
I roll my eyes but smile anyway. Soon, the road winds through a thick green forest, flashes of the ocean between the trees. The driver talks about movie sets and waterfalls, but I barely hear him.
“So,” Alaric says after a while, “what did your session teach you?”
“That doctors should communicate like normal humans,” I say with a laugh. “Apparently, that’s groundbreaking.”
He smiles. “Mine was worse. Two hours on dealing with trauma. I think I lost brain cells.”
“That’s tragic,” I tell him, and he laughs. The sound fills the bus, warm and easy, and for a few seconds, it feels like old times—before everything between us got complicated.
The bus slows for a sharp curve, and our shoulders bump. Neither of us moves away. I turn toward the window to hide the warmth spreading through me. The island blurs by—green and gold, hibiscus blooming wild, the air thick and sweet. I let myself enjoy the quiet.
When the driver announces Waimea Falls, everyone stirs, collecting hats and cameras. Alaric stands and offers his hand to steady me as I step into the aisle. His palm is warm and steady, and I let him grasp my fingers longer than I should.
“Ready?” he asks, tone gentle.
“Yeah,” I say, though I’m not sure what I’m ready for.
The trail curves beneath a canopy so thick it swallows the sunlight.
The air smells like wet leaves and earth, heavy with moisture.
Birdsong echoes through the branches, and Alaric walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush when the path narrows.
We fall into a rhythm, stopping when others pause for photos.
“This place doesn’t feel real,” I tell him, looking up through the tangle of green. “I’ve been to the Big Island, Oahu, and Maui, and this is different from all of them. They’re all so different but beautiful.”
“Paradise back home doesn’t come with this view or this Wi-Fi,” he says with a grin. “I can’t decide if that’s progress or blasphemy.”
I laugh, and when I turn toward him, he’s looking at me. Not the quick glance from breakfast but one that lingers.
The trail opens, and the sound of rushing water surrounds us.
Waimea Falls spills white and wild over black stone into a pool that looks painted.
Mist drifts through the air, cool against my face.
People scatter along the bank, wading near the rope line, taking photos, laughing. For a minute, I forget everything else.
“This was a good idea,” I say, watching sunlight shatter across the water.
He nods, voice quiet. “Yeah. It was.”
Then his attention shifts. The looseness in his shoulders vanishes. I follow his gaze to a couple on the far side of the clearing—voices sharp, hands gesturing. Behind them, a little girl stands alone, her lips turning blue, chest rising in shallow, panicked gasps.
A cold prickle runs through me. “Oh no.”
Alaric is already moving. He crosses the grass, dropping to his knees beside her. The parents keep arguing, lost in their worry.
“She’s allergic,” the woman stammers. “To nuts.”
“Has she been exposed today?” Alaric’s tone is calm but clipped.
“I don’t know,” the mother says, voice breaking.
“Where’s her EpiPen?”
That stops them both. The father blinks. “You had it.”
“No, I gave it to you.”
Alaric’s voice cuts through. “She’s going into anaphylaxis. We need that pen right now.”
They freeze, panic swallowing logic.
“Where’s her bag?” I ask, scanning the ground.
The mother points to a pink backpack near a bench. I grab it, drop to my knees, and dump everything onto the grass. Sunscreen. A stuffed rabbit. Juice box. A clear case with the epi pen rolls free.
“Got it,” I call.
Alaric doesn’t look up. “Good. Take off the blue cap.”
I do it, hands steady even though my heart’s racing. He stays focused on the girl, his voice low and soothing. “Hey, sweetheart. Look at me. You’re okay. I know it feels scary, but I’ve got you. You’re safe right here with me.”
Her breaths come too fast, high and broken. Her tiny chest jerks with each one. Alaric holds up the injector so she can see it. “This is going to help you breathe, all right? Just a quick poke and you’ll start to feel better soon.”
I press the injector into his hand. He counts softly, “One, two, three,” and presses it into her thigh. The click sounds sharp in the humid air. The girl flinches but doesn’t cry.
“There we go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. You’re brave. Keep breathing for me.”
Her breathing deepens. Color creeps back into her cheeks. My throat loosens.
The mother’s crying now, whispering her daughter’s name, but Alaric doesn’t waver. “You’re doing so well,” he says, voice soft and sure. “Can you squeeze my hand? That’s it. The medicine’s working. Just keep breathing with me, okay? In and out. Like this.”
He breathes slowly, exaggerating each inhale and exhale until she starts to copy him. The panic in her eyes fades. “See that waterfall?” he says gently. “Let’s count the drops. One, two, three. Good girl. You’re safe now.”
It’s barely a minute, but it feels like time stalls around them. The air shifts. Her breathing steadies. Through it all, Alaric stays right there—steady hands, calm voice, eyes full of quiet focus.
I’ve seen him lecture, argue, flirt. But this gentleness and calm is something else entirely.
The father drops beside them. “Is she—”
“She’s okay,” Alaric says, checking her pulse. “She’ll need to be monitored, but she’s out of danger.”
The park medic arrives with a first-aid kit, and Alaric steps back to let him take over. He explains what happened, his tone level, posture still protective. When he hands me the empty EpiPen, our fingers brush. His touch is warm, solid.
“You were incredible,” I tell him softly.
He shakes his head. “You found it. That’s what mattered. Her parents were in panic mode.”
For a second, we just stand there in the mist. The girl’s parents thank him over and over, and when the medic leads them toward the ambulance path, the crowd slowly disperses.
The falls roar on, steady and endless. Alaric wipes his palms on his pants and exhales, the tension finally leaving his shoulders.
“That was…” I start, but the words won’t come.
“Intense,” he says, meeting my eyes.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “And kind of amazing.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth. “It’s nice when things go right.”
We start back along the trail.
As we walk, I replay the drama of the afternoon and realize he has an amazing way of making people believe they’re safe.
It’s a kindness and a gift I’m not sure he understands he has.
But the warmth I feel soon gives way to the same old confusion as I remember how safe I once felt with him—right up until I didn’t.
He’s said he thought he was doing what was right, and that maybe that was a mistake. But I still don’t really understand what he means. And I don’t know whether it’s wise or just inviting more pain for me to ask.