“What are you lookin’ for?” he asks, curious.
I rest my hand on his cheek, letting my thumb graze the edge of his mouth. His skin is warm, and I can feel the slow beat of his blood under my palm.
“Just learning you, I suppose.”
He doesn’t speak, and I don’t need him to. The ship sways beneath us, a slow cradle rocked by rough water. Somewhere, men murmur through the walls. One laughs too loud. Another coughs. But in our little bunk, it’s just us. He smiles that slow, reluctant smile that only shows on one side.
“Ain’t much to see.”
I start to speak, but he catches my hand and kisses the heel of it.
His hand finds my hair and brushes it back behind my ear. “You look at me like I ain’t half bad.”
I shift closer, touch my forehead to his, thumb tracing the edge of that scar above his eye. “You don’t have to be bad,” I whisper. “There’s goodness in you. I see it.”
He huffs. Not quite a laugh, more like disbelief. “Don’t tell nobody,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want word gettin’ out.”
The ship groans. His thumb brushes along my ribs with a tender rhythm.
“Sleep,” he says, barely audible. “I’ll keep watch.”
I close my eyes, steadied by the rhythm of his inhales and exhales, until the night melts into day.
Pain.
Searing pain. It radiates from my hip, deep and jagged, like something hot and wrong is lodged beneath the bone.
It’s bandaged. Why?
I try to breathe, but drawing in air is a labor in itself.
The ceiling is high and yellowed, wooden beams crossing overhead like ribs. A single oil lamp flickers in the corner. Awoman’s voice sounds, faint behind a wall. Boards creaking above, as if someone’s pacing.
The sheets are coarse. My skin sticks to them.
I try to turn my head, and a bolt of pain shoots through my spine. My breath hitches.
“Bear?” His name barely escapes my lips. The memory clings to me—his arms around me, the sway of the ship, his voice whispering,Sleep. I’ll keep watch.
But the bed is too wide. The room is too cold.
He’s not here.
Where has he gone?
The memory floats just out of reach. I try to remember his voice clearly, but it slips sideways, muddied by pain and the weight of whatever happened next.
Did we make it off the ship?
We must have.
My eyes open again, lids heavy. A figure moves near the door, shape blurred by the lamp’s low flicker.
“You’re awake,” a woman says. Her dress rustles as she crosses the room. I catch the hem of a gray skirt, the edge of an apron. A basin in her arms.
“You’ll want to stay still.” She sets the basin on a table I hadn’t noticed. “You’ve torn the stitches once already.”
“Where—” My throat rasps. I try again. “Where is he?”
