The North Atlantic was a restless slate of gray, the horizon blurred where water met sky. The deck beneath your boots heaved with the swell, salt stinging your lips, but you kept your shoulders squared. Divers weren’t supposed to look uncertain — not in front of her.

Captain Katherine Frost.

She stood at the prow, gloved hands behind her back, her coat a dark silhouette against the restless sea. She didn’t need to raise her voice to command a ship; even her silences held weight. The crew moved around her like the tide, steady, instinctive, respectful.

And you — you were just another sailor in her shadow. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

“Suit up, diver,” she said at last, her gaze slicing toward you. Blue-gray eyes that seemed to have memorized the ocean itself. “We’re dropping you in first.”

Your throat went dry, but you nodded, tugging on the thick neoprene and tightening straps with fingers that wanted to tremble. “Aye, Captain.”

She watched every motion, sharp but not unkind. “You know why you’re going in alone?”

“Yes, ma’am. The currents are tight in the wreckage. More than one diver and we risk a tangle.”

Her lips twitched at the corner — approval, maybe. “Good. Don’t forget it when you’re down there.”

Minutes later, you stood at the stern, mask in hand, the sea yawning dark and infinite beneath you. The weight of the tanks pressed against your spine, but heavier still was the feel of her eyes on you, steady as an anchor.

You hesitated. Just for a breath. And her voice carried across the deck:

“Dive safe, sailor.”

And softer, so only you caught it — or maybe you imagined it through the rush of blood in your ears:

“Captain, my captain.”

You hit the water clean, cold swallowing you whole. The wreck loomed below, ribs of iron jutting like a graveyard. Your training took over — lights, tether line, measured breaths. But through it all, in the static of your mind, her voice lingered.

When you surfaced again, lungs burning, hands numb, she was there at the ladder. Not the deckhands, not your dive partner-in-training. Her.

Katherine Frost grasped your arm herself, steadying you as you stumbled back onto the ship. Her touch was firm, grounding. Her eyes scanned your face — not the wreck, not the gear — you.

“You came back,” she said, as if she hadn’t doubted, but relief softened her words.

You forced a grin, dripping seawater. “Wouldn’t dare disappoint you, Captain.”

Something flickered in her gaze then — a spark quickly smothered. She released your arm, straightened, became the unshakable figurehead again. “Good. Debrief in my cabin in twenty. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, she walked away, coat snapping in the wind.

You were left shivering, heart hammering with something you refused to name.