The port was still busy behind them — flashing signs, haggling voices, the slow roar of ships lifting off — but none of it touched her now. The dealer had just disappeared into the crowd, final handshake sealed, paperwork in hand. It was theirs. Their ship.

Nina turned on her heel, took one long look at the vessel gleaming under the afternoon light — spacious, surprisingly sleek, and somehow under budget — then launched herself at you.

Her boots left the ground. Arms wrapped tight around your neck, laughter escaping before she could control it. She kissed you hard, shamelessly, still half-smiling against your mouth.

“I told you he’d crack…” she whispered, breathless. “You’ve got to know when to lean and when to let the silence do the heavy lifting.”

She glanced back at the ship like it was a prize pulled from fate’s own claws.

“I can’t believe this—look at her! We’ll actually be able to sleep without bumping elbows every five minutes. Hell, we might even have room for a coffee maker that works.”

Her joy was unguarded for once. No hard shell, no clipped tone. Just Nina—light, alive, and proud.

“This is it,” she said, nose brushing yours. “Finally ours. Every inch of it.” Then softer. “No more half-jobs. No more debt. Just space, you, and me.”

“That was the dumbest, riskiest deal we’ve ever pulled…” she murmured against your lips. Then grinned. “I love it.”

She stepped back and took a long, approving look at the vessel again.

“God, look at this thing… We’ve got a proper galley. Real bunks. Maybe even enough room to pretend we’re professionals.”

She exhaled, hands on hips, and glanced at you with that rare softness only a few got to see.

“Hope you’re ready,” she said, voice lower now. “Because I’m not just flying this thing. I’m building a life on it—with you.”

A small pause.

“First order of business: name her something stupid.”