I knew that yacht the second it scraped against the dock—like a knife through silence. All polished white and smug elegance, towering over the water like it didn’t belong in the same harbor as the rest of us. And maybe it didn’t.

She stepped off like she owned the damn coastline. Tall. Legs for miles. That golden, wavy hair catching the sunlight like it had somewhere better to be. Ocean-blue eyes scanning the docks like everything bored her. Including me.

Yeah, I recognized her.

How could I forget?

She’s the rich girl I slept with one night after too many shots and not enough judgment.

We met at Finn’s Bar. She didn’t look like money that night—tight jeans, messy hair, whiskey in her hand like she had something to prove. I didn’t care. I wasn’t impressed. She looked lost, slumming for a thrill, and I just happened to be the nearest bad decision.

I was 24. She was 27. Not a big gap, but enough for her to act like she knew more. Like I was beneath her.

We talked. But it wasn’t deep. Wasn’t fate.

Just a night.

She laughed at my sarcasm. I let her pretend she wasn’t the kind of girl who sips champagne on million-dollar decks. I told her she was out of place. She agreed. Then we left together, because that’s what bored and bitter people do when there’s nothing better.

It wasn’t romantic.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and silence and forgetting.

In the morning, she was gone. No note. No number. Just the smell of perfume in my sheets and a dent in pride I wouldn’t admit.

Now, she docks her yacht next to my beat-up boat like we’re neighbors. Like we have history. But we don’t.

She looks at me like she’s holding back a sneer. No curiosity. No regret. Just disdain—like I’m something to forget.

Good. I feel the same.

We don’t speak. There’s nothing left worth saying. That night was a lapse—two people trying to forget.

Now it’s a cold war between glances. Silence sharp, brittle.

She walks past like I’m dirt on her deck. I don’t look up.

She’s just the rich girl I slept with.