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“It did,” Ezra says.

Theo holds my gaze. “You can stretch after you eat and get some fluids in you. We don’t know when the next wave might hit.”

I touch his wrist. “I can rest by the water.”

His purr stalls for half a beat. He looks at the window, then back at me. “Dock is shaded this early.”

“And the channel helps Ezra.”

Ezra’s brows lift. “I support all plans that make me less decorative.”

Theo exhales through his nose. “Bathroom. Clothes. Then I carry you down.”

I start to protest out of habit. My thighs shift. My body sends a warm, slippery reminder that it has been through an ordeal.

“Actually,” I say, “that is a lovely plan.”

Ezra laughs under his breath.

Theo helps me sit and lifts me from the nest as if I weigh nothing. My arms go around his neck, and my body settles against him with delight. I’m wearing his shirt again, soft and dark around my thighs, and I can smell him everywhere.

“Carrying remains awesome,” I tell him.

His mouth curves. “I’ll note that for the future.”

Theo carries me downstairs to the bathroom. After clean underwear, a soft skirt Honey packed, and my fuzzy water bear slippers, I settle on the hallway bench long enough to check my phone while Theo heads toward the kitchen.

There is a message from Honey.

Your mom called. I kept details gentle. She is already building an after-heat care package from home. I’ll pick it up when it’s ready. She loves you. We all do. Text when you can.

My chest goes tight. For a moment, I imagine my mother in the kitchen, sorting supplies into neat piles, worrying with her hands because she can’t be here with her arms.

I type back with a thumb that shakes a little.

Tell her big thanks and hugs. And tell her I’m safe.

Honey replies almost at once.

Already did. She cried, but in the proud relieved way. Call me when you’re up for it.

I hold the phone to my chest, trying not to cry from the sheer wonder of the last twenty-four hours.

By the time Theo comes back from the kitchen to collect me, the house smells like coffee, butter, and cheese. My stomach makes a sound that ruins any attempt at elegance.

Ezra follows us out to the porch, stronger with every step toward the channel. The morning air is still cool, the kind of Florida cool that arrives like a secret before July heat takes over and turns every surface heavy. Dew shines on the grass. Dragonflies skim above the water. Cypress knees rise along the bank, dark and knuckled, while the channel slides clear over pale sand and waving green plants.

At the end of the dock, a canoe rocks against its rope. Off to the side, half tucked beneath jasmine and climbing roses, a small gazebo waits in the shade. Its roof is weathered, the benches painted white and worn smooth by years of damp air. Ferns crowd the steps. Blue morning glories open along one rail.

Theo carries me there.

The gazebo looks over a curve of spring water so clear I can see tiny fish flicker beneath the surface.

“Oh,” I whisper. “This is beautiful.”

Theo lowers me onto the cushioned bench. “Stay put.”

“I will stay mostly put.”