Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
LANI
I think I’m dreaming.
That’s the only explanation that makes sense – because everything feels soft around the edges, like I’m underwater, sounds warping and stretching before they reach me.
My body doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Too heavy.
Too light. Hot and cold at the same time.
I’m aware of movement without being able to follow it, of being lifted and carried like I’ve shrunk down into something fragile.
Someone’s talking to me.
Not loud. Not sharp. Low. Steady.
Sol.
That makes no sense. Sol is grumpy and distant and avoids eye contact. Sol does not carry me up the stairs like I weigh nothing. Sol does not tuck his arm tighter around me when I shiver, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like hold on.
I try to open my eyes but the room tilts, so I give up.
The last thing I remember clearly is Finn’s face when he left – how tight his jaw was, how hard he hugged me, like he was trying to leave part of himself behind to keep me upright. I’d told him I’d be fine. I always say that.
After that…everything slid downhill fast.
I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember agreeing to anything. I just remember the way the house felt too big once Finn was gone. Too empty. Like the walls were pressing in.
Now there’s steam curling around me, warm and damp, and the sound of running water cuts through the fog in my head.
The bath.
I realise – dimly, belatedly – that Sol has stripped me.
The thought should make me panic.
Instead, it barely registers.
I’m sitting on the edge of the bath, my feet dangling uselessly above the tiles, Sol’s hands still braced at my sides like he’s afraid I’ll tip over if he lets go. The air is warm. Too warm. My skin prickles like it’s been rubbed raw.
“Easy,” he says, close. “I’ve got you.”
The words land somewhere deep, even if I can’t quite hold onto them.
I feel myself being guided down into the water. Warm. Not hot. Perfectly measured. The second it hits my skin, I gasp – then sag as the ache eases just a fraction. My teeth chatter anyway, my body betraying me, shaking like I’ve been dropped into snow instead of a bath.
Sol swears under his breath.
His hands are everywhere and nowhere – supporting my shoulders, steadying my knees, keeping me upright while my body does its best impression of falling apart.
I’m vaguely aware of him washing my hair, careful fingers working through tangles like he’s done this before. Like he knows what he’s doing.
I don’t.
I feel awful.
“Cold,” I mumble, even though I’m burning. My skin feels too tight. Too sensitive. Like every nerve has been turned up too high.
“I know,” he says. “Just breathe.”
I try.
Something brushes my neck.
Not water.
Fingers.
They still.
“…what’s this?” he asks.
I don’t need a mirror to know he’s talking about the mark, even though my thoughts move like syrup. I try to lift a hand and fail.
“I—” My voice cracks. I swallow. “I don’t know.”
That’s not entirely true. I know exactly what it is. I just don’t have the strength to explain it. The words feel too heavy. Too complicated.
Sol doesn’t push.
I feel him shift behind me, his presence solid and unyielding, one hand firm between my shoulder blades when another wave of shivers hits. He wraps a towel around my shoulders while I’m still in the water, trapping heat like he’s building a barrier between me and everything else.
When he finally lifts me out, my legs barely cooperate. I cling to him without meaning to, forehead knocking gently against his chest.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?” he asks.
“Being…like this.”
His chest rises under my cheek.
“Don’t,” he says flatly. “Just don’t.”
I’m dried off without really noticing when it happens.
Wrapped. Patted. Turned. I register fabric being pulled over my head – soft, worn cotton that smells faintly like him and a lot like laundry detergent.
His clothes. Too big. Sleeves swallowing my hands.
It feels safer than anything I’ve worn in days. Comforting.
My own clothes are gone.
Washed, maybe. Or discarded. I don’t ask.
The bed comes next.
His bed.
I know because it smells like salt and clean sheets and something grounding I can’t name. He tucks me in with brisk efficiency, pulling the duvet up around my shoulders, making sure I’m centred and warm. The mattress dips briefly as he adjusts the pillows, then stills.
My eyelids are so heavy they ache.
“Sol?” I murmur, the word barely there.
“Yeah.”
“Am I…dreaming?”
There’s a pause.
Then, quietly, “No.”
That’s all.
It’s enough.
Sleep takes me before I can ask anything else – before I can be afraid, or confused, or embarrassed. Before I can question why my body feels calmer here, why the awful buzzing has dulled just enough to let me rest.
The last thing I feel is warmth.
And hands that don’t let go until I’m already gone.