I grabbed the towels again, rubbing her arms first, brisk and warm, drying her hair with the edge like she was something fragile I didn’t want to break.
Then myself, quick.
I dug around under the starboard bunk and found it.
My old flannel.
Faded red.
Paint stains. Sawdust ground into the sleeves from two summers ago when we rebuilt Artemis.
Should’ve thrown it out.
Never did.
“Hold up,” I said.
She lifted her arms automatically.
I slid it over her head.
Buttoned it slow.
One button.
Two.
Three.
The sleeves swallowed her hands.
It hit mid-thigh.
She looked ridiculously small inside it.
And way too cute for my own good.
She smiled up at me. “This yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Smells like you.”
My heart did something stupid and painful and warm all at once.
“Good,” I said.
Below deck, the cabin lights stayed off.
Just the bow porthole cracked open.
Night air drifting in.
Stars blinking through like we were floating through space instead of Boston Harbor.
The boat rocked soft and steady.
Like breathing.
