The "shower" wasn't just a bucket with holes in it. Because Damien Sinclair didn't do half-measures, it was a portable, solar-powered eco-pod with privacy screens, heated water, and fluffy white towels that somehow stayed dry in 90% humidity.
Aria stepped inside, peeling off her wet, clinging tactical gear. The water hit her skin—hot, clean, and pressurized—and she let out a groan that was pure, unadulterated bliss. She washed the salt of the Cenote and the mud of the jungle from her hair, lathering it with the strawberry shampoo Damien had specifically requested.
It smelled like home. It smelled like the mornings in the penthouse before the world went crazy.
"You spoil me," she had told him.
"I protect you," he had replied.
