Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
LANI
For one whole day, I felt like myself again.
The sleep had been dreamless – deep and warm, wrapped in the weight of a blanket and the scent of something soft I couldn’t place.
When I woke, the house was quiet and filled with the faint smell of soup.
My body still ached, but not like before.
The nausea had settled. My skin wasn’t burning from the inside out.
I ate the soup Finn left me and drank two full mugs of water without gagging.
Even my hands didn’t shake when I moved Ethel back into her usual spot on the porch.
It didn’t last.
Now, two days later, I’m hunched over the sink in the grill’s kitchen, trying to keep my breathing steady while the kettle screams behind me.
My vision swims every few seconds, and there’s a horrible tension coiled low in my belly, like my body’s gearing up for something and I’m the last to know what.
I twist the tap off and press my palms flat to the counter.
My arms feel weak, shaky. Not enough sleep.
Not enough food. The quiet kind of unwell.
The kind that creeps back in after you think it’s gone.
I didn’t think much of the first wave – thought I was just tired.
Maybe something viral. But this…this is different. It’s in my bones. Deep and wrong.
The door swings open behind me.
Something in me tightens – sharp and immediate – before I even turn.
“You’re hiding.”
I straighten too fast and knock my hip against the cupboard.
Koa leans against the frame, arms crossed, his damp locks pushed back from his face.
The tension in my chest shifts – doesn’t ease, exactly, but…focuses.
He’s wearing that infuriating smirk, but there’s something more serious in his eyes today.
“Not hiding,” I mutter, reaching for the tea towel to look busy. “Just needed a minute.”
He cocks his head. “You look like hell.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“Not in a bad way. More like…artfully dishevelled hell.”
I shake my head, but it takes effort.
Koa doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches. The kind of watchfulness that makes it hard to breathe, like my body’s suddenly too aware of where he is. How close.
After a long pause, he asks, “You sick or something?”
I freeze.
It’s not accusatory. Not probing. Just matter-of-fact. But my whole body reacts like it is – chest tightening, blood pounding in my ears.
“Just tired.”
He raises a brow. “You look like you’ve been just tired for a while.”
“I’m busy.”
“You missed three shifts. Didn’t answer your phone. And you looked like you were about to pass out the other day. Now you’re white as salt and shaking like a leaf.”
I swallow hard.
He steps closer. Not threatening. Not flirtatious. Just present.
My grip tightens on the counter.
The dizziness shifts, tilts into something else entirely.
“Did something happen?”
My pulse stutters, stupid and sudden.
“No.” The lie tastes bitter. “I’m fine,” I add, sharper now.
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods slowly. “Okay.”
He walks over to the kettle, switches it off, then pulls two mugs from the shelf like he owns the place.
“I’m not trying to be a dick, Lani,” he says, his voice quieter now. “I’m just…I dunno. You’re different. It’s been noticed.”
I let out a breath that’s half scoff, half sigh.
He slides a mug toward me. Chamomile. Somehow he knew.
I wrap my hands around it and stare at the surface, willing myself not to shake too noticeably in front of him.
The shaking does ease. Not gone, just quieter. It’s a relief.
“I’m not dying,” I say finally, a feeble attempt at a joke. “I’m just having a bad week.”
“You sure about that?”
I look up at him.
He doesn’t press again. Doesn’t soften. Just meets my gaze steadily. Like he’s leaving the door open, but he’s not going to push me through it.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He nods. Then, quietly: “You let me know if that week gets worse. Text me. Maybe I can help somehow.”
And then he’s gone. The quiet rushes back in too fast. Too loud.
Leaving me alone, with my cooling tea, the pounding in my head, and the terrifying sense that something is coming – and I have no idea how to stop it.