Go big.
The idea lands like a flare in the dark—stupid, improbable. But maybe…
I rake a hand through my hair, searching for something. Anything that might still reach her.
“Like what?” I mutter. “I can’t exactly rent a plane out here. Fly a banner over the ship that says, ‘forgive me for being an asshole’.”
Rocky snorts. “It would be a start."
“What about fireworks?” I push on. “Have drones spell her name across the ocean. Is that even legal? Definitely expensive.”
“Romantic, though.”
“I could hijack the PA system,” I say, basically spitballing it now. “Make my big apology to her in front of a few thousand strangers.”
Rocky winces. “That might get you thrown overboard.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “She’d hate it anyway.”
The truth of it settles in, heavy and undeniable.
“She doesn’t want loud,” I say. “She needs to know I’m her forever.”
That’s when the bartender drifts back, polishing a glass, expression unreadable.
“What kind of forever are you talking about?”
“The death do us part kind.” I sound damn sober when I put it that way.
I don’t love you anymore.
Rocky leans forward. “Hey Emilio, you know this ship better than anyone. Got any ideas for my friend to prove he’d do anything to win back his wife?”
The bartender chuckles. “Deck seven. ‘Ink & Anchor.’ Tattoo studio. Open all night.”
A tattoo studio… Huh.
Rocky’s head snaps toward me, and for a long, stupid second we just stare at each other.
“No,” he says flatly. “Absolutely not.”
I narrow my eyes back at him. “I thought you said now wasn’t the time to play defense.”
“This isn’t offense, man, it’s sabotage. You don’t get inked drunk. That shit is permanent, man.”
Permanent.The word bounces around my skull, sluggish and distant.
I look down at the bar, then back up at him. “That’s what I want. Permanent.” Hell, maybe a little physical pain will distract me from everything hurting inside.
Rocky opens his mouth, then closes it again.
I picture it without meaning to—her name, written across my skin. Close to my heart. Not flashy, but something I can’t hide.
Maybe it’s the whiskey. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the part of me that’s tired of being careful.
“I’m done keeping my head down,” I say. “Done pretending I can fix this by behaving.”
Rocky studies me, searching for hesitation.
