I wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft creak of the hull shifting with the tide.
For a second, I don’t remember where I am.
Then Sage stretches beside me, warm and tangled in my shirt, hair everywhere, one bare leg thrown over mine like she claimed me in her sleep.
My brain short-circuits all over again.
“Morning,” she murmurs, voice husky.
“Morning.”
We both laugh a little — quiet, embarrassed, like teenagers sneaking out past curfew.
The walk-of-shame energy is real.
We tug yesterday’s clothes back on. I run a hand through my hair in the tiny mirror. She steals my hoodie. Coffee gurgles from the little machine Tony keeps stashed below deck.
Domestic. Stupidly domestic.
It hits me how easy this feels.
Too easy.
I climb up top with two mugs.
“Tony?” I call.
Nothing.
Blanket’s gone. Champagne bottle empty. No Chloe.
I check the bow.
Empty.
I blink. “Did they… evaporate?”
Sage just smiles into her cup. “She probably made him chase breakfast.”
“You’re not worried?”
She shrugs. “Chloe does what she wants.”
That answer again.
I don’t know why it both comforts and unsettles me.
“Tony’s solid,” I say anyway. “Stand-up guy. He’d walk her home.”
“I know,” she says softly.
She believes me instantly.
No doubt.
No suspicion.
Just trust.
