Lock’s chuckle came from the far side of the table. “Funny how the world ending resets expectations.”
Jeff raised his fork. “To hot food.”
Ethan echoed, “To hot food.”
Callan watched me with that quiet, steady smile.
I wiped my hands and surveyed the room again. “Okay—important question.”
Lock lifted an eyebrow. “Hit me.”
“Where’s the shower?” The room quieted for a secondbefore Callan pushed his chair back.
“I’ll show you, love.” He stood, offering his hand. I took it, following him down the short hallway toward the back of the cabin. The floorboards sighed softly beneath our steps.
He pushed open the door and flicked on the light.
A full, normal bathroom. Tile on the floor, a sink, a toilet, and a glass shower.
Callan stepped past me, twisting the knobs and letting the water warm. Steam curled up and around us, a soft hush that swallowed the room.
I turned, peeling off my clothes as the heat pooled against my skin. My shirt followed the pants to the floor, revealing bruises and scrapes.
For some reason, I shifted a fraction away from him as the last of my clothes dropped. Ridiculous. Callan had seen every inch.
“I need to wash my clothes,” I said, glancing over my shoulder.
Callan didn’t answer at once. I sensed him close behind me, warmth brushing my back as his chest pressed lightly against mine. He slid his arms around my waist, and his lips pressed to the side of my neck.
A soft shiver ran through me.
“Let me dig out some of Finn’s clothes for you,” he murmured, a quiet warmth in his voice. “A tee and some boxers should be comfortable.”
He paused, a sly note threading through his words. “And don’t tell him I’m stealing a few things, too.”
I huffed a little laugh, easier than I meant to sound. “Your secret’s safe.”
The kiss he brushed along my shoulder before steppingback lingered, a small fire I hadn’t noticed simmering all day. The bathroom grew cooler, the heat retreating as he walked away.
He vanished down the hall, and a moment later I heard drawers opening somewhere in the cabin.
I stepped into the shower.
The hot water hit my shoulders, and a long groan escaped my lips.
Days of salt, sweat, and dried blood began washing away immediately, spiraling down the drain in faint pink streaks.
I leaned forward and braced my hands against the tile, letting the water run through my hair and down my back.
The steam curled around me, loosening muscles wound tight from stress and sleeping on a boat deck. My eyes drifted closed, and the glass door slid open behind me.
Callan stepped in without a word. The shower was small. His chest brushed my back first—solid, warm—his hands found my shoulders, thumbs pressing gently into the knots there.
I moaned, long and shaky.
He didn’t speak but reached for the bottle of shampoo on the ledge, poured some into his palm, and worked it into my hair with slow, careful fingers. His touch was tender, massaging my scalp in deep circles that made my knees threaten to give out. Suds slid down my neck. I tilted my head back, letting him rinse, letting the water cascade over us both.
His fingers combed through the wet strands, untangling everything the ocean had knotted. When he was done, he turned me gently to face him.