Maybe that’s why he annoys everyone. He wears his emotions so plainly, like he’s never had to fight to bury them deep. It’s foolish. People like him—wide-eyed and wide-open—they get eaten alive.
Still, as much as his cheer grates on me, there’s something about it that feels... foreign. Refreshing, even. A reminder that not everyone’s been dragged through the same muck I have. He’s like a breeze from a world that isn’t watching its back every second. As if there’s a place where people like him can exist without getting trampled.
“Ambiance?” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face, trying to shake off the dregs of sleep. “What the hell kind of ambiance isthis?”
“I’m creating a new song!” he beams, his fingers still tapping. He doesn’t even flinch at my tone, like he’s too wrapped up in his own little world to notice.
I sit up, groaning as I roll my stiff shoulders, and blink around at the beach. The waves lap lazily at the shore, the sea almost peaceful. Almost. Because the blue-eyed bitch watching over it is probably waiting for the perfect moment to churn the sea up again, just to see us flounder.
I scan the horizon, squinting against the sun. Zayan’s nowhere to be seen. I turn back to Vinicola, who’s sitting with his songbook open and humming to himself.
“Zayan’s gone, then?” I ask, voice still groggy, though I’m starting to wake up now.
Vinicola nods, not missing a beat in his drumming. “He’s off fixing the ship. Told me to keep an eye on you. Said you looked like you needed the rest.”
I snort, rubbing the grit from my eyes. “Figures.”
I glance in the direction of the ship. Its silhouette looms even smaller than I remember, sails flapping lazily in the wind. Zayan’s barely visible, just a dark speck against the gleaming white canvas and the weather-beaten hull. If I strain, I can hear the rhythmic tapping of wood, likely him patching up the cracks we took in the storm.
“How long was I out?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even, like I’m not annoyed at having been left out of the action. “When did he get up?”
Vinicola shrugs, scribbling something in his songbook. “A good while. I don’t know if he slept at all. When I woke up, the fire was already out. He left a stack of baked fish over there.” Hepoints to a leaf piled with at least seven fish, cleaned and baked to perfection. “He wasn’t around.”
A deep sigh bubbles in my chest, but I swallow it down. I push myself to my feet, legs trembling slightly as I stand.
Ishould’ve been the one to take care of the crew, to plan, to make sure everything’s ready for our sail. That’s my job.I’mthe captain.
But it seems like Zayan has it all handled.
I hate that.
Catching fish, cleaning them, cooking them, and then fixing the ship on top of it—that’s not a small task. He must’ve been up all night, working quietly while I slept through it like a bloody novice.
The worst part? I was too damn tired to notice.
That leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Because I know what Zayan’s like—he’ll never say it, but he’ll enjoy this. Enjoy the fact that he’s done it all without needing me, without waiting for me. He’ll wear that smug grin of his and I’ll just have to take it.
“Right,” I mutter, shaking the frustration out of my limbs. “No time for this. Gotta get ready to sail out then. Can’t stay here much longer.”
Vinicola nods, but his eyes remain fixed on his songbook. The quill in his hand moves in smooth, practiced strokes, dipping in and out of a small inkwell I don’t remember him having. I squint at him, raising a brow.
Where did he even get that from? Where did he pull the ink out of? And more importantly, how the hell is he still writing songs in the middle of this?
He pauses just long enough to glance up, offering a casual shrug, as if we’re discussing the weather. “I doubt the ship’s ready, though.”
“What gives?”
“If it were, Mr. Zayan would’ve come ashore by now.” His quill pauses for a beat, and he glances at me with a casual smile. “Doesn’t seem like the type to stray too far from you, does he?”
His words hit harder than I want to admit, and it takes everything in me not to scowl. There’s nothing in his tone—no judgment, no pity—just the kind of calm observation that somehow twists the knife deeper. Heat rises in my chest, the kind I can’t quite shove down fast enough.
Vinicola notices. His gaze flicks up to me again, and when he sees the look on my face, he makes that ridiculous ‘o’ shape with his mouth, like he’s only just realized he’s poked the wrong beast.
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, really,” he says, voice easy. “Just an observation. Mr. Zayan’s not exactly subtle when it comes to you, is he?”
His offhanded tone makes my blood boil even more. It’s the kind of casual truth that hits too close to home, and worse, he’s right. Zayan isn’t subtle. Not with me. Well, that just adds salt to the wound.
