Something in her relaxes the second we cross the threshold, like her body recognises safety even if her head doesn’t.
I set her down gently on the edge of the bath, hands still braced at her sides until I’m sure she won’t tip.
I turn the water on to warm up and grab a towel, movements clipped, controlled.
I don’t let myself think past the next practical step.
I don’t know what’s wrong with her.
But I know one thing with brutal clarity: whatever this is, she shouldn’t be facing it alone. And if Finn can’t be here, then I will be.
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 likehold 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 tryingto 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.