The boat creaks as you approach, the sound of it part of the landscape, part of the tired, lazy rhythm of the water. Joyce doesn't turn right away, the same way someone might not acknowledge a passing thought. But when she does, it's a small, knowing shift of her head, like a gesture you’ve seen a thousand times before. Her smile, when it comes, isn't for anyone else. It's just for you, slightly crooked, slightly tired, but still present, something held back.

"Of course, it's you." Her voice is matter-of-fact, as though the arrival is inevitable, like the tide that always rises. "it’s like clockwork with you”

She straightens her back, but it’s out of years of trained propriety more than it is the need for pretenses. That has long since been absent between you. It’s simply an adjustment, as if you being here means the world around her might settle just a bit more. She doesn’t gesture for you to come closer, but the space between the two of you narrows simply in the way she looks at you.