I wash up, rinsing the conditioner out of my long dark hair, and shut the water off. I step out, pulling a towel around my body and glance at myself once more in the fogged mirror. First things first, we need to buy some makeup. Some skin lotion. Things that will make me feel more human.
I tug on dry leggings and a sweatshirt from the duffel Juno gave me.
As I’m pulling my hair into a messy bun, my mind flashes backward—creek laughter, water splashing, Ozzy’s hand bracing me when I slipped. The way he moved like his body didn’t even ask permission.
Protective.
He’s all protectiveness. All instinct. AllI’m here.
And the thought that I needed him last night slams into me again. The nightmare. The thrashing. Me waking with panic clawing my throat, whispering his name like it was a prayer. I press my palms to my face, mortified all over again.
Get it together, Salem.
You are not a damsel.
You are not a helpless girl.
You are—unfortunately—a woman with feelings and a nervous system that apparently has decided Ozzy Oliver is Safe Person Number One.
Which is… annoying. And kind of terrifying. Because safe people can leave. Safe people can become unsafe. Safe people can die.
I step out into the hallway, forcing my shoulders back, chin up. Normal. Fine. Just a woman living her best life in a hidden safehouse because the world is garbage.
Ozzy’s in the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp again—apparently he rinsed off too—leaning over the counter like he’s studying something.
When I get closer, I see it’s a notebook. A literal notebook with a pen.
I stop short. “Is that… paper?”
Ozzy looks up, eyes flicking to my face with immediate attention. “Yeah.”
“Are we… writing in the ancient ways?”
He grins. “We are. Because it’s harder to hack paper.”
I step closer, intrigued despite myself. “What are you doing?”
Ozzy taps the pen against the page. “Making your list.”
“My list?”
“Your list,” he confirms, like he’s explaining something obvious. “Things you’ve never done before.”
I blink. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to do them,” he says simply with a shrug to his shoulders.
My stomach flips, and it’s not hunger this time. I glance at the notebook. At the top, he’s written:
SALEM’S LIST (NO EXCUSES EDITION)
Underneath are a few bullet points already:
Creek day (repeat, with snacks)