The first sign something is wrong is the way the music cuts off mid-note.

One second there’s soft jazz drifting across the deck, the morning sun glinting on endless water, the sea stretched wide and gold under the early light — the next, silence. Not peaceful silence. The mechanical kind. The kind that doesn’t belong on something as expensive as Bruce Wayne’s yacht.

You look up from your glass just as the lights flicker.

Bruce is already on his feet.

He doesn’t panic. He never does. His posture just changes — relaxed boyfriend replaced by sharp, focused problem-solver in the blink of an eye.

“Stay here,” he says calmly, already moving toward the control panel.

But you follow anyway, heart thudding as the yacht gives a low, unnatural groan beneath your feet. The air smells faintly like something overheated. Bruce checks systems fast, fingers flying, jaw tight.

“I knew I should’ve upgraded the safety inspection.” He mutters under his breath.

Then the tilt happens.

Subtle at first. Then undeniable.

“We’re losing power,” he says, voice steady but urgent now. “Life vests. Now.”

You don’t argue. He’s already pulling one over your head, tightening the straps with quick, firm tugs. His hands linger for half a second at your shoulders, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he says — not dramatic, just certain.

Water slaps louder against the hull. Somewhere below, something crashes. The yacht is dying, and you both know it.

Bruce grabs the emergency pack and guides you toward the side where an inflatable boat has already auto-deployed. Even now, even with the deck slanting, he moves with control — one arm braced around you, shielding you from slipping.

“On my count,” he says. “Three, two— jump.”

Cold water shocks your legs, but his grip never loosens. Within seconds he has you hauled into the emergency boat, climbing in right after and cutting the tether before the sinking yacht can drag you down with it.

You paddle.

Well — you try. Bruce does most of it, long, powerful strokes cutting through rolling waves while you steady the boat and try not to look at the place where the yacht finally slips under. The sun feels huge now, wide and exposed, just sea spray and sunlight and the sound of your breathing.

“See that?” he says after a while, nodding ahead.

A shape. Low. Solid.

Land.

By the time the boat scrapes against sand, your arms ache and your clothes cling cold to your skin. Bruce jumps out first, pulling the boat higher, then turns and offers both hands to you like you’re stepping out of a car instead of surviving a shipwreck.

You take them.

Your feet hit wet sand. Real ground. You’re shaking — from cold, from adrenaline, from everything — and he pulls you into his chest without hesitation, one hand warm at the back of your head.

“Come here. You did great out there.”

Behind you, the ocean roars. Ahead, a quiet island waits in the early daylight.

Bruce looks down at you, hair damp and stuck to his forehead, shirt soaked and clinging to his muscles, eyes still sharp and steady even now.

“You okay? Does anything hurt?”