Ben watched her swallow the last drop, his expression hovering somewhere between horror and absolute, unadulterated worship.

He processed the information about her parents—the blenders at dawn, the "unmarked jars," the herbal influences that made the air earthy. It explained so much. It explained the iron stomach. It explained the way she could find a pocket of calm in the middle of a chaotic tour bus. She wasn’t just tolerating the wellness; she was built from it.

"So you were molded by the kale," he whispered, staring at her empty cup like it was a weapon she’d just disarmed. "You were born in the smoothie. I merely adopted it."

He looked at her throat, watching the faint flush rise on her skin, and felt a surge of competitive affection that was entirely ill-advised. She looked triumphant. She looked beautiful. She looked like she was waiting for him to fail so she could tease him about it for the next decade.

"Terrible tequila," he muttered to himself, swirling the green sludge in his cup. "Right. I can do that. I’ve drank worse things in better bars. I once drank something out of a shoe in Berlin."

He met her eyes. The challenge in them was electric.

"Don't embarrass the ecosystem," he repeated, narrowing his eyes at her. "Babe, I am the ecosystem. Watch and learn."

He didn't give himself time to overthink it. He didn't sniff it again (fatal error). He just tilted his head back and opened his throat.

He poured the rest of the juice down the hatch in one aggressive, continuous motion.
It was cold. It was thick. It tasted like he was drinking a freshly mowed lawn mixed with resentment and ginger. He felt the shock of it hit his stomach, warring with the heat of the lagoon water lapping at his chest, but he didn't stop. He squeezed his eyes shut for a microsecond as the last of the pulp hit his tongue, suppressing the urge to cough, and swallowed hard.

Done.

He slammed the empty cup down onto the floating tray next to hers—a little harder than necessary, causing the plastic to wobble.

"Ha!" he exhaled, the sound exploding out of him as he wiped his mouth with his wet forearm.

He shuddered—a full-body ripple that started at his shoulders and went all the way down to where his hands were gripping her thighs underwater.

"I did it," he wheezed, blinking water out of his eyes and looking at her with wild, victorious pride. "I am empty. I am purified. I can feel my organs applauding."

He leaned forward immediately, invading her space, his forehead pressing against hers hard.

"Admit it," he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, breathless rumble. "That was impressive. I barely cried. I am a wellness warrior."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He shifted his grip on her legs, hoisting her slightly higher against his waist, and captured her mouth in a messy, enthusiastic kiss.

It tasted like ginger and cold vegetables and steam, and it was fantastic.

"You taste like a salad," he murmured against her lips, grinning as he pulled back just an inch. "But like... a really expensive, sexy salad. The kind they serve at places that don't have prices on the menu."

He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the taste fade into the background as the warmth of her body grounded him.

"Okay," he whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder, his arms locking around her back to hold her secure. "Health achieved. Now we switch to the prosecco. Because if I have to be this virtuous for five more minutes, I’m going to start levitating."

Cleo didn’t pull away when he slammed the cup down like he’d just conquered something ancient and mythical.

She watched him.

Watched the stubborn set of his jaw. The way he forced himself through it. The little tremor in his shoulders when the ginger hit. The way he refused to back down just because she’d dared him.

When he pressed his forehead to hers and demanded recognition, her lips curved slowly.

“Barely cried?” she echoed softly. “You absolutely cried. Internally. Spiritually.”

Her hands slid up from his shoulders to cradle the back of his neck, thumbs brushing damp skin just beneath his ears.

“But,” she added, voice warming, “it was impressive.”

She let that land. Let him feel it.

“Wellness warrior,” she murmured, studying his face like she was grading the performance. “Very brave. Very committed. A little dramatic. Ten out of ten.”

When he hoisted her higher, her breath hitched—not from surprise, but from the way his hands tightened around her thighs, solid and sure. Her legs adjusted automatically around his waist, ankles crossing behind him as the lagoon water shifted around their bodies.

The messy kiss made her laugh against his mouth before she softened into it. It did taste like ginger and green things and steam.

“You taste like stubborn pride,” she murmured back, brushing her nose against his.

When he called her a sexy salad, she shook her head faintly, smiling.

“That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever received,” she said lightly. “I’m choosing to take it.”

His chin on her shoulder, arms locked around her back — she relaxed into him fully. The water moved gently around them, warm and buoyant. His heartbeat steady against her ribs.

“Levitating would be very on-brand for you,” she said quietly. “You’d act like it was accidental.”

Her fingers traced slow patterns along his shoulder blade beneath the water.

“But yes,” she conceded, tilting her head slightly so her cheek brushed his. “Virtue accomplished. Ecosystem preserved.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes soft but mischievous.

“We can graduate to prosecco.”

Her thumb brushed the faint green stain near the corner of his mouth, wiping it away with exaggerated tenderness.

“But don’t think I didn’t notice,” she added gently, “that you didn’t flinch the second time.”

Her legs tightened around him again, secure, grounding.

“You’re adaptable,” she said. “You’d survive my childhood.”

She leaned in once more, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his lips — no challenge now, no competition — just warmth layered over warmth.

“Now,” she whispered against him, “let’s toast to your organs. They worked very hard today.”

Her legs loosened from his waist, sliding down slowly until her feet found the soft, silica-silt bottom. She didn’t fully step away though — her hand immediately finding his again, fingers weaving through his like it was automatic.

“Come on,” she murmured.

Steam curled around them as they waded back toward the swim-up bar, the floating trays bobbing gently against the wood. The air felt colder now that the shock of the glacial rinse had passed, but she stayed close enough that their arms brushed with every step.

When they reached the counter, she leaned her forearms against the edge, chin tipped slightly up toward the bartender.

“Two proseccos, please,” she said easily — no hesitation this time.

Not a hybrid. Not virtuous. Just celebratory.

While they waited, she turned into him again without thinking, arms sliding back around his waist under the water. She rested her cheek against his chest for a moment, listening to his heartbeat steady and warm.

“You survived,” she said quietly, amused.

The glasses arrived — slim flutes balanced carefully on the floating tray between them. Pale gold bubbles rising fast and bright.

She lifted one, then pressed the other into his hand.

“To adaptability,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

“To not fossilizing.”

Her flute tapped gently against his, the sound small but sharp in the misty air.

Then she took a sip — slower this time. Letting the crisp bite wash away the ghost of ginger and kale.

She closed her eyes for a second, exhaling.

“Okay,” she breathed. “That’s better.”

When she opened them again, there was warmth there. Satisfaction. A little pride.

“Now we can be insufferable,” she added lightly, lifting her glass again. “But in a glamorous way.”

Ben felt the slide of her body against his as a physical loss the moment her legs loosened and she found her footing on the soft, silty floor of the lagoon. He didn't let her go far—he couldn't have even if he wanted to, which he definitely didn't—his hand instinctively finding the small of her back under the water to keep her within his orbit.

He watched her order the prosecco with that easy, quiet confidence she applied to everything from crisis management to ordering breakfast, and felt a surge of affection so sharp it almost rivaled the ginger burn still lingering in his throat.

Adaptable.

She’d said it like a compliment, but Ben took it as a knighthood. Knowing what he knew now about the blenders at dawn and the earthy, herbal air of her childhood, he realized that fitting into her world wasn’t just about keeping secrets; it was about keeping up.

"I’ll take adaptable," he murmured, leaning his hip against the underwater bench as the bartender slid the flutes toward them. "I’m putting it on my résumé. Right under 'can open a bottle of wine with a shoe' and above 'proficient in mario kart'."

He watched the pale gold bubbles rising in the glass, frantic and bright against the milky blue backdrop of the water. It looked like civilization. It looked like a reward.

When she tapped her glass against his—clink—the sound was swallowed instantly by the steam and the vast, open silence of the lava field.

"To glamour," he agreed, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register he reserved just for her. "And to being insufferable. I think we’ve earned the right to be at least twenty percent annoying for the rest of the day."

He brought the glass to his lips, the steam curling around the rim.

The first sip was a revelation.

It was crisp, dry, and aggressively cold. It washed away the grassy, aggressive memory of the kale and replaced it with something sharp and elegant. It tasted like luxury. It tasted like they had gotten away with something.

"Oh, thank god," he sighed, lowering the glass but keeping it close to his chest. "That is much better. That tastes like forgiveness."

He turned slightly in the water, shielding her from a drifting cloud of steam with his shoulder. He looked at her—really looked at her. Her hair was slicked back, wet and dark, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the fresh, clean glow of her skin. She wasn't wearing the armor of her job, or the polish of a red carpet. She was just Cleo, standing in a volcano, drinking wine with him at ten in the morning.

"You know," he said softly, tracing the rim of his glass with a wet thumb. "You’re right. About the 'not asking anything of us' part."

He took a half-step closer, the water rippling between them.

"I feel like... I don't know. Like we're paused. Like the rest of the world is on mute."

He reached out with his free hand, his fingers finding hers underwater again, weaving through them tight.

"And for the record," he added, his eyes searching hers, "I'd survive your childhood. I'd drink the unmarked powders. I'd listen to the blenders. If it gets me to this version of you? I’d do it twice."

He clinked his glass against hers one more time—softly, deliberately.

"So, glamour it is. What's the plan, partner? Do we float until we turn into prunes? Do we haunt the waterfall? Or do we just stand here and look mysterious until someone asks for our autograph?"

Cleo smiled when he said he’d take adaptable, the expression slow and warm, like she was filing that away somewhere important.

“Put it in bold,” she said softly. “It’s a strong skill.”

When he described the prosecco as forgiveness, she laughed under her breath, lifting her glass again for another measured sip. It was better. Clean. Bright. The bubbles snapping lightly against her tongue before dissolving.

“See?” she murmured. “Balance. You suffer, then you sparkle.”

Her eyes softened when he shifted closer and the noise of the world seemed to dissolve again into steam and mineral water. She could feel the sincerity in him before he even finished speaking.

Paused.

Muted.

She felt it too.

Her fingers tightened around his underwater, grounding and steady.

“You’d survive,” she said quietly. “You’d complain theatrically. You’d dramatically narrate the blender sounds like it was a horror film. But you’d survive.”

A beat.

“And you’d probably reorganize the spice cabinet.”

When he said he’d do it twice, something in her expression shifted — affectionate, sure, but deeper than that. Certain.

“You don’t have to survive it,” she said softly. “You just have to be here.”

She clinked her glass against his again, deliberate and light.

Then she tilted her head slightly, thinking.

“Okay,” she said, sliding easily into planning mode but without losing the softness. “We float for a few more minutes. Enough to justify the prosecco.”

She took another sip, watching the bubbles rise in the flute.

“Then we go eat. Something substantial. Bread. Butter. Something that makes the green juice nervous.”

She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his.

“After that — spa. The hot sauna. The one that feels like it’s medically questionable but spiritually necessary.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, playful.

“Then we eat again. Because sauna math cancels calories.”

She tapped the side of her glass against his chest gently.

“Then we go back to the room. Nap. Actual nap. No negotiations.”

A soft smile.

“Then bath. You wash my hair like the legendary three-county shampoo boy you claim to be.”

Her thumb traced lightly along the side of his hand in the water.

“And then dinner with my sister and Jax. Clean. Civilized. Pretending we didn’t spend the morning arguing with kale.”

She took one last sip of prosecco and exhaled slowly.

“That’s the plan.”

Her eyes lifted back to his, warm and steady.

“Tell me you can keep up.”

Ben listened to the itinerary like it was the setlist for the greatest show on earth.

Bread. Butter. Sauna. Nap. Hair washing. Dinner.

It was a symphony of leisure. It was a masterclass in vacation pacing.

He swirled the prosecco in his glass, watching the bubbles race to the surface, and felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth that he couldn’t suppress.

"First of all," he said, pointing the stem of his glass at her accusingly. "I absolutely would reorganize the spice cabinet. It’s called mise en place, Cleo. You can’t have the cumin just living next to the cinnamon like anarchy. That’s how accidents happen. That’s how you get savory oatmeal."

He took a sip of the wine, letting the cold, crisp liquid wash over his tongue as he considered the rest of her proposal.

"Bread and butter," he mused, nodding solemnly. "Yes. We need to confuse the green juice. We need to introduce it to complex carbohydrates so it knows who’s really in charge. I support this bullying of vegetables."

He shifted in the water, his legs brushing against hers, enjoying the friction and the warmth. The steam was getting thicker around them, creating a private little cloud that made the rest of the lagoon feel miles away.

"Sauna math," he continued, ticking the items off on his fingers that weren't holding the wine. "I’m familiar with the discipline. It’s closely related to 'Vacation Calories Don't Count' and 'If It's Fruit It's Basically Water.' I am a scholar in this field."

But when she got to the part about the bath—the "legendary three-county shampoo boy"—Ben’s expression softened. The joke fell away, replaced by that heavy, focused warmth that only showed up when he was looking at her.

"I’m training for it right now," he murmured, flexing the fingers of his free hand underwater against her hip. "I’m doing finger pushups. I’m visualizing the lather. It’s going to be the main event."

Then came the dinner plans.

My sister and Jax.

The collision of worlds. His oldest friend, the guy who knew every stupid thing Ben had ever done since he was six, and Cleo’s sister, the person whose opinion probably mattered more to Cleo than anyone else’s.

"Civilized," he repeated, testing the word like it was a foreign language. "Clean. Civilized. Pretending we didn't just drink pond water."

He looked at her, searching her face. She looked calm. She looked ready.

"You know Jax is going to try to break me, right?" he said, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "He’s going to tell the story about the time I got stuck in the tuba. He’s going to bring up the frosted tips phase. He has no loyalty."

He sighed, dramatic and resigned, but he leaned in closer, until their foreheads were touching again.

"But for you? I will be civilized. I will use the correct fork. I will not make a single tuba joke."
He brushed his nose against hers, inhaling the scent of the mineral water and the faint, sweet smell of the prosecco on her breath.

"Keep up?" he whispered, low and rough, dropping his voice to a rumble that vibrated through her chest. "Babe, I’ve already mentally eaten the bread. I’m already in the nap. I am four steps ahead of you."

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and happy and completely locked on hers.
"But since I'm ahead of schedule?"

He tightened his arm around her waist, anchoring her flush against him in the warm water, refusing to let the moment end just yet.

"That means we can stay right here. In the steam. In the quiet. Because once we step out of this water, the world gets loud again. And I want to keep you to myself for as long as I can."

Cleo watched him as he unraveled her plan like it was something to admire instead of something to follow, her smile growing quieter, softer, the more he talked.

“Savory oatmeal feels like a personal failure,” she murmured, lips brushing the rim of her glass before she took another small sip. “I agree. That kind of chaos shouldn’t be allowed in a shared space.”

Her fingers stayed threaded through his, warm and certain beneath the water, even as he moved, even as the steam thickened around them until the rest of the lagoon felt like it had disappeared.

She liked him like this.

Loose. Present. Not performing.

When he talked about the sauna and vacation math, she let out a small, breathy laugh, her head tipping just slightly toward him.

“You’ve done this before,” she said, amused. “You sound… practiced.”

But it was when he shifted—when the humor dropped, when his focus narrowed—that she stilled.

She felt it the same way she always did with him. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming. Just… real. Like something settling into place instead of catching fire.

Her thumb traced slowly along his wrist underwater, grounding them both.

“You’re going to do great,” she said quietly when he mentioned Jax, her voice soft but sure. “And if he tells the tuba story, I’ll just tell something worse about him. It evens out.”

Her mouth curved slightly.

“Civilized is a group effort.”

When he leaned in, when his forehead pressed to hers, her eyes softened completely, the world narrowing down to the space between them.

She breathed him in—steam, mineral water, something faintly citrus from the drink.

And then his voice dropped, and something in her chest tightened in that quiet, familiar way.

Keep you to myself.

For a moment, she didn’t answer.

She just looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Then her lips curved, slow and knowing, something softer underneath it.

“We’re here for three weeks,” she said quietly, her voice low enough it barely carried past him.

Her nose brushed his, gentle, unhurried.

“We don’t have to rush any of it.”

She leaned in just enough to kiss him—soft at first, lingering, like she wasn’t trying to prove anything. Just… staying.

When she pulled back, it was only an inch.

“We could cancel everything,” she added, almost casually, but her eyes stayed on his. “The bread. The sauna. The… civilized dinner.”

A faint, teasing glint.

“We could be irresponsible.”

Another kiss—slower this time, her hand sliding up to rest at the side of his neck, her thumb brushing just under his ear.

“Order room service instead,” she murmured against his lips. “Stay in. Let the world stay loud without us.”

Her forehead rested against his again, her voice dropping softer.

“Practice.”

A small pause. A breath.

“For Sage… or Briar.”

She said it like it was something precious. Not a joke. Not a plan. Something in between—hope, wrapped in quiet.

Her fingers curled gently at the back of his neck, holding him there, not letting the moment slip away.

“We’ve got time,” she whispered.

The word Practice hit him harder than the glacial water had.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a promise. It was a direct line to the conversation in the dark, the one about the future, the one that had terrified him in the best possible way. Hearing her say those names—Sage or Briar—in the light of day, with prosecco on her breath and mischief in her eyes?

Ben felt his chest cave in.

He stared at her, the steam curling around them, and forgot about the cold air. He forgot about the green juice. He forgot about Jax and the potential tuba story.

"You are dangerous," he whispered, the words rough and low, vibrating against her lips. "You are an actual hazard to my pulse."

He moved his hand to the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the damp skin there, anchoring her to him. He loved the way she looked right now—soft, conspiring, willing to burn the whole itinerary down just to be alone with him.

"Cancel everything," he repeated, tasting the idea. "Be irresponsible. Stay in."

He leaned in, brushing his nose against hers, his eyes dark with a sudden, fierce intensity.
"Do you have any idea how much I want to say yes to that? Do you know how easy it would be to just carry you out of here, put the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door, and not come out until Tuesday?"

He kissed her—slow, deep, and hungry—letting her feel exactly how tempting that offer was. He felt her sigh against him, the surrender in her body calling to every possessive instinct he had.

But then he pulled back, just an inch, resting his forehead against hers. A crooked, regretful smile touched his lips.

"But here is the problem, Cleo," he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "If we cancel on Jax, he wins. He will text me forty times. He will accuse me of being 'soft.' He will send me emojis that no grown man should ever use."

He sighed, dramatic and pained.

"And your sister? If we bail on a 'civilized' dinner to stay in and… practice… she’s going to know. She’s going to look at me with that knowing, terrifying sister-look, and I will crumble."
He squeezed her waist underwater, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

"So here is the counter-offer," he whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
"We keep the bread. Because we need the stamina. We keep the butter. Non-negotiable."
He kissed the corner of her mouth.

"We keep the dinner. Because I want to sit across a table from you and touch your leg under the tablecloth and know something no one else knows."

He gently tugged on a wet, stiff lock of her hair

"And the bath? The salon treatment?" He looked her dead in the eye, utterly serious. "That stays. I am absolutely still washing your hair. I need to get the silica out, but mostly I just need to have my hands on you for forty-five minutes straight. That is a mandatory service."

He moved to her ear, his breath hot against her wet skin.

"But the nap?"

His hand slid lower, pressing firmly against the small of her back.

"The nap is cancelled. The nap is now officially replaced by… rehearsals. Extensive, repetitive, highly dedicated rehearsals."

He pulled back to look at her, searching her eyes, checking to see if she was with him.

"Sage or Briar aren’t going to make themselves," he said softly, the humor fading into raw, honest adoration. "And I’m a big believer in putting in the hours. Are you okay with a modified schedule?"

Cleo felt it the second the word practice landed—felt the shift in him, the way his breath changed, the way his body drew tighter around hers like something had locked into place.

It wasn’t just teasing anymore.

It was real.

And God… she loved that about him.

Her lips curved faintly when he called her dangerous, her thumb still resting at the edge of his jaw, feeling the warmth there even against the cool air and steam.

“Good,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “I’d be worried if I wasn’t.”

Her nose brushed his again, slow, deliberate, letting him sit in it—the weight of what she’d said, the promise tucked inside something that sounded light but wasn’t.

She felt the pull of it too.

The temptation.

Cancel everything. Stay in. Forget the world exists.

When he kissed her, she melted into it without hesitation, her hand sliding fully into his hair, holding him there, letting the kiss deepen just enough to say yes without actually saying it.

For a second, she would’ve followed him anywhere.

But then he pulled back—and she saw it. The shift. The balance. The way he didn’t just want her… he wanted everything that came with her, too.

Her expression softened.

She listened to him, really listened, the corners of her mouth lifting more and more the further he got into his “counter-offer,” the ridiculous seriousness of it, the way he built a whole structure around them like he was protecting something.

When he said stamina, she let out a quiet laugh, her forehead dipping briefly to his shoulder.

“Bread for stamina,” she echoed, amused. “Very scientific. I trust your research.”

The kiss at the corner of her mouth lingered in her smile.

“And butter,” she added softly. “Always butter.”

Her hand slid back to his neck when he talked about dinner, about sitting across from her, about knowing something no one else did.

Something in her chest tightened—warm, steady, sure.

“I like that part,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “The part where it’s just ours.”

Her gaze held his, open, unguarded.

When he tugged at her hair, she huffed a small, knowing breath.

“That part is non-negotiable,” she said. “You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. Full service.”

But then—

The nap.

She felt his hand slide lower, heard the shift in his voice, and she knew exactly where he was going before he even finished.

Her smile deepened, slow and a little dangerous—but this time, she shook her head.

Not harsh. Not dismissive.

Just… certain.

“No,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him back into her answer.

Her nose nudged his, gentle.

“I’m agreeing to the schedule,” she murmured, lips hovering close enough to his that her words brushed warm against them. “Bread. Butter. Dinner. Bath. All of it.”

A soft pause.

“But the nap stays.”

Her mouth curved, just slightly.

“That’s not negotiable.”

She kissed him—slow, deliberate, not rushed—like she was sealing it.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against his again, her voice softer, more thoughtful now.

“But…”

Her thumb traced a small line along his cheek.

“We can push dinner.”

Her eyes lifted to his, calm, knowing, a hint of something conspiratorial flickering there.

“We don’t have to be on anyone else’s timeline. We could go later.” A beat. “Or show up a little… unraveled.”

A quiet breath, her lips brushing his once more, lighter this time.

“That way,” she murmured, “we don’t have to rush anything.”

Her fingers curled at the back of his neck, holding him there.

“Nap stays,” she repeated softly. “But everything else?”

A small, almost wicked smile.

“We can take our time.”

Cleo held his gaze for one second longer after she said it—long enough for it to settle, for him to feel exactly what she meant without her needing to spell it out.

Then her expression shifted.

Softer. Lighter. Back to the surface.

She brushed her nose once more against his, a fleeting, almost absent gesture, before her hand slipped from the back of his neck.

“Come on,” she murmured, quieter now.

There was a hint of truth in it. A warning, wrapped in something easy.

She leaned in, pressing one last kiss to his mouth—gentle this time, grounding instead of pulling—then she let herself drift out of his hold.

The absence was immediate.

The water closed the space between them, steam curling into it like a curtain, but she didn’t look back. Not yet.

She turned instead, wading through the milky blue toward the edge of the lagoon, her fingers skimming the surface as she moved. The heat clung to her skin, to the back of her neck, to the damp strands of her hair as they slid down her spine.

The air hit her first.

Cold. Sharp. Immediate.

She inhaled it, steady, letting it wake her up as she climbed the dark stone steps, water trailing from her legs in thin, silver lines that disappeared into the volcanic rock.

For a second, she just stood there—bare shoulders exposed, steam lifting off her skin into the grey sky above.

Then she reached for her robe.

The fabric was thick, soft, impossibly warm as she pulled it around herself, the contrast almost startling after the heat of the water. She slid her arms through, letting it settle over her shoulders before drawing it closed, fingers finding the belt at her waist.

She tied it slowly, deliberately.

Grounding.

When she finished, she exhaled—soft, quiet—and pushed damp hair back from her face, tilting her head slightly as if resetting herself.

Only then did she glance back toward him.

Her expression was calm. Steady.

But there was still something there—something warm, private, tucked just beneath the surface.

“Your turn,” she called lightly, her voice carrying through the steam. “Unless you’ve decided to live here now.”

A small pause.

Her mouth curved, just a little.

“I’d respect it. It’s a strong choice.”

Unraveled.

The word hung in the steam between them, heavier and more promising than any itinerary he could have drafted.

Ben watched her wade away, the water rippling in her wake, and felt a dangerous mix of admiration and absolute, knee-weakening desire. She had managed to negotiate a nap, a delay, and a implied rendezvous in a single sentence, all while looking like a water deity.

He was dating a mastermind. He was dating a genius who knew exactly which buttons to push to get him to agree to anything.

He watched her climb the steps, the water sluicing off her skin in rivets, the steam clinging to her ankles. He watched her wrap that thick white robe around herself—a tragedy in the short term, but a necessary step for the "unraveled" part of the plan later.

"Strong choice," he muttered to himself, echoing her. "Yeah. Living here is a strong choice. But there is no bread here. And there is no bed here."

He took one last look at the lagoon—the blue water, the black rock, the place where they’d just negotiated the terms of their afternoon—and nodded.

"Good game," he whispered to the water.

Then, he braced himself.

He moved toward the steps with the grim determination of a man about to sprint through a blizzard. He climbed out of the water, and the Icelandic air hit him like a physical slap. It was rude. It was aggressive. It stole the heat right out of his bones and replaced it with a shivering reality.

"Oh, god," he hissed through his teeth, his wet feet slapping against the cold stone as he lunged for his robe. "Bad. Bad. Bad idea."

He wrestled his arms into the sleeves, shivering violently, and tied the belt with hands that were suddenly clumsy. He flipped the collar up, huddled into himself, and hurried toward where she was standing, a beacon of calm and warmth in the grey mist.

"I considered it," he chattered, coming up beside her and immediately violating her personal space to steal her radiant heat. "I considered evolving gills. But then I remembered the butter."

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders—robe against robe, a friction of terrycloth—and steered them toward the exit, walking briskly.

"Okay," he announced, his teeth chattering slightly but his grin wide and triumphant. "Plan locked. We are getting the bread. We are getting the butter. We are pushing dinner until we are sufficiently... what was the word?"

He looked down at her, his eyes dark and dancing with the promise she’d made.
"Unraveled," he quoted, his voice dropping to a low, meaningful rumble despite the cold. "I like that word. I’m going to hold you to that word."

He squeezed her shoulder, guiding her through the steam toward the warmth of the changing rooms.

"Now, march. Before I freeze into a statue and you have to carry me back. I promise I’m heavier than I look."

The fourth morning felt quieter than the others.

Not in the obvious way—there was still wind slipping low across the lava rock, still distant murmurs from other guests somewhere near the main building—but quieter in her chest. Like something inside Cleo had finally matched the pace of the landscape.

Cleo stepped out from the retreat’s low, slate-colored structure with her hands tucked into the pockets of her wool coat, the cold catching at the bridge of her nose. Steam from the lagoon drifted behind her in pale ribbons, dissolving into the wide Icelandic sky.

Beyond the stone wall, the land opened without apology.

The lava field rolled outward in frozen swells—hardened mid-surge, like an ocean arrested in the middle of a storm. Roped formations twisted together where molten rock had once folded over itself. Jagged ridges rose and fell unpredictably. Some surfaces were matte and porous, others slick and dark as obsidian where rain had smoothed them over centuries.

The black wasn’t flat. It shifted—charcoal, ink, hints of rust where iron bled through in thin seams. And everywhere, moss.

Thick, luminous green moss clung to the rock in velvety drifts, filling crevices, softening edges, glowing almost neon against the volcanic stone. It looked fragile, but it wasn’t. It had survived fire.

Yesterday had been divided worlds.

She’d spent it wrapped in eucalyptus steam beside her sister—skin warmed, shoulders loosened, talking in low, private tones that only sisters could manage. Dinner stretched long after the plates were cleared, conversation circling gently around the future.

And she had told her.

Not with ceremony. Not like an announcement. Just between sips of tea.

She and Ben were trying.

The word had felt heavier out loud.

Phoebe hadn’t panicked. She hadn’t smiled too quickly either. There had been a pause—a careful, protective silence.

You’re sure?

They hadn’t known each other before 2020. There was no long childhood mythology tying them together. They had met as adults—fully formed, fully stubborn, fully complicated. They dated from 2020 to 2021. One intense, compressed year that burned bright and ended messy.

After that, they hadn’t disappeared from each other’s lives.

They had hovered.

Returned. Pulled back. Chosen other people, then quietly chosen each other anyway. Even when they weren’t together, there had been gravity. A constant recalibration that always seemed to land them back in the same orbit.

Phoebe had watched that too.

It didn’t feel like impulse or timing or chemistry masquerading as permanence.

This wasn’t impulsive.

It was overdue.

Ben had spent yesterday off-property with Jax—black-sand beaches, remote waterfalls, roads that felt like the edge of the earth. He’d come back wind-reddened and bright-eyed, smelling like cold air and distance, telling her about cliffs that made him feel small.

They had met again at night like two travelers returning from separate maps. Different stories. Same bed.

This morning was theirs.

The marked walking path began just steps from the main building—narrow wooden planks raised slightly above the lava to protect the fragile moss. Subtle wooden posts guided the way, not fencing the land in but asking for gentleness.

Cleo paused at the start of it, boots crunching lightly on volcanic gravel before stepping onto the wood.

She let herself walk a few paces alone first.

The sky hung low and pale, light diffused into silver. In shallow dips between rock formations, rainwater collected in dark pools that reflected the sky like broken mirrors. The wind moved cleanly across the open field, unobstructed, carrying nothing but cold.

It felt extraterrestrial. Ancient. Stripped down to essentials.

No cameras.
No noise.
No performance.

Trying didn’t feel reckless out here.

It felt steady.

She slowed her pace until Ben came up beside her, then slipped her hand into his without ceremony. Her fingers threaded through his naturally, easily, like they’d practiced this part for years.

“Okay,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “This is my speed.”

The path curved gently ahead, weaving deeper into the frozen waves of black rock and impossible green.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she was chasing her life.

She felt like she was walking directly into it.

“Let’s see where it goes.”

Cleo walked a few steps in silence after she said it, letting the words settle into the open air.

The wooden planks dipped slightly, following the natural rise and fall of the lava beneath them. On either side, the rock formed strange, sculptural shapes—twisted ropes where molten earth had once folded over itself, sharp spines jutting upward like frozen flames. In the shallow creases, moss gathered thick and luminous, cushioning the violence of what had come before.

She tightened her hold on his hand just slightly.

“Do you ever think about how long this has been here?” she asked quietly, eyes scanning the uneven horizon. “Like… this rock was fire once. And now it’s just… background.”

The wind caught the edge of her coat, pressing the fabric against her. She breathed it in—cold enough to sting, clean enough to reset something in her lungs.