The shower was a religious experience. Amara stood under the steaming spray for twenty minutes, watching the mud and stress swirl down the drain. She scrubbed her skin pink with a bar of soap that smelled of lemongrass and coconut, trying to wash away the memory of the crash, the fear, and the confusing, overwhelming heat of the pilot’s body against hers.
When she finally stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she realized a critical error: she had no clean clothes. Her suitcase was still in the wreckage, likely being eaten by ants. The few items in her go-bag were filthy.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“Amara?” It was the pilot’s voice—deep, muffled by the heavy wood, and instantly accelerating her heart rate. “I brought you something to wear. It’s not… high fashion. But it’
