Like we’d known each other longer than twenty-four hours.
Like kids.
Like trouble.
Fresh teak under my feet.
Oiled wood warm from the day.
Thick lines coiled neat.
Sails tied down tight.
Artemis waiting like she always did.
I untied the dock lines and tossed them to her.
“Captain’s assistant,” I said.
She caught them, laughing.
I idled us out slow, city lights stretching behind us like spilled gold.
Found one of the harbor moorings—the big white buoy bobbing steady—clipped us in clean.
Engine off.
Silence.
Just water tapping the hull.
Wind.
Us.
I looked at her.
Grinned.
“You ready?”
She tilted her head. “For what?”
Instead of answering, I held her gaze.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Then I reached for my glasses.
Slid them off.
Set them down.
Her eyes tracked every move.
Watch next.
