Page 6 of Heatstroke

The air reeked of sleep and heat and sweat and something too close to longing. He swung his legs off the bed and sat, breathing hard, like he'd sprinted across the island instead of just across some dream.

He hated this. Hated the crack in his armor, hated how easy Thierry made it all seem. As if desire wasn't dangerous. As if it hadn't cost Daniel pieces of himself before.

He stood, got dressed without turning the lights on. There was a long evening ahead, and he needed solitude like a man needed air. Thierry Batiste could smile all he wanted, but Daniel would not be drawn into this game.

He just couldn't afford to be.

THREE

FRICTION

The rain came down in sheets, sudden and slanting, as though the heavens had waited precisely for the moment Daniel stepped outside. He was halfway across the veranda of Ital Brisa when it began, a thunderclap rumbling through the belly of the island like some ancient, restless god clearing his throat.

A few patrons groaned in unison, dragging their drinks and beach towels inward. Daniel remained where he stood. The fine linen of his shirt had already been clinging to his spine, the air dense with ozone and salt.

He had not intended to come here. In fact, he had not even intended to leave the guesthouse of The Breakline. But they had run out of bottled water, and the market, too thick with people and unwelcome sensation, had become intolerable by noon.

Ital Brisa was a bar a few streets away. It was tolerable, usually quiet during the day. He had entered with every intention of taking a table in the back—alone, dry, undisturbed.

But then the scream came.

It cracked across the bar like a blade, small and high. A child's panic, unmuted by rain. In a moment Daniel was already out again, bare feet thudding down the stone steps to the shore, through puddles that had not existed two minutes before.

A boy lay at the edge of the shallows, no more than ten, perhaps less. His arm was curled inward at an unnatural angle, skin torn raw and blooming red where the coral had kissed him. His mother knelt beside him, speaking a frantic mixture of French and English, her own hands trembling too much to help.

Thierry was already there, crouched beside the boy. Rain sluiced down his bare back, his eyes darting over the injury with that odd blend of calm and concern that Daniel had begun, reluctantly, to associate with him.

Daniel's voice cut through it all, firm, low, the kind of tone that expected obedience without having to demand it. "Move. Let me see."

The mother didn't hesitate. Thierry did.

"He cut it bad," Thierry said, not moving from his place.

"I can see that. Let me in."

Something in his tone—or the authority that laced it like steel under silk—made Thierry finally shift aside. Daniel knelt, the wet sand seeping through his linen trousers, and studied the wound with a clarity that came as instinct despite the rain. He asked the boy's name—Andre—and kept his voice calm as he examined the arm.

Dislocated at the elbow. Not broken. Laceration across the radius, deep enough to need stitching. Coral embedded. Not life-threatening, but it would scar if left untreated.

"You're going to be all right," he murmured to the boy, whose breath came in hiccupping sobs. "I'm going to move your arm. It'll hurt for three seconds. I need you to be brave for four."

The boy, pale now, nodded once. Daniel looked up at Thierry. "Hold his legs. Tight."

Thierry didn't argue. He moved in beside the boy, murmuring something low and steady into his ear, one hand on each small thigh, anchoring him. Daniel braced, counted under his breath, and moved the arm back into socket with a sure,precise motion that earned a single, strangled cry from Andre—and then silence.

Daniel exhaled.

Despite the rain, which had softened just the slightest bit, a small crowd had gathered—tourists, locals, staff—all watching with a kind of reverent stillness.

Thierry glanced at Daniel as if seeing him properly for the first time. "You're not just here to tan and sulk, then."

Daniel didn't answer. He didn't look up. He tore a clean strip from the hem of his shirt and began wrapping the arm with practiced hands.

Minutes later, the boy was stabilized and handed off to his frantic but grateful father for transport to the clinic. Daniel stood again, wet through his clothes, sand clinging to his knees.

The rain had slowed to a steadier rhythm now, thick drops pattering against the thatched awning above the bar. Thierry stood beside him, still barefoot, still golden, even under bruised sky.

"You're really not going to say anything?" Thierry asked, voice low, amused. "That was... impressive. That other kid too, a few days ago."

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