The boat groans as it rocks beneath you. Steel against water. A wind rising in the east.

Spencer’s already on deck—shoulder against the rusted mast, one hand curled tight around a flask he hasn’t touched in three days. He doesn’t look over when you approach. Not right away.

Then you step into his peripheral.

And he breathes.

One long, controlled exhale through his nose. Like you showing up just cost him his last bit of composure.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches the horizon like it owes him something.

Then— “You get tired of lookin’ for land that don’t exist?”

His voice is rough, low, threaded with something too exhausted to be sarcasm but too stubborn to be soft.

The wind curls around him. His shirt clings damp to his spine.

You shift, and the wooden planks creak. That sound finally makes him turn—slow, deliberate.

Eyes like gold-lit smoke. Cheekbone dark with a healing bruise.

He doesn’t smile. Just studies you for a long, unbearable moment.

Then— “I keep thinkin’ I’ll get used to havin’ you near.”

A beat. His jaw works.

“But I don’t.”

He uncaps the flask, takes a small sip, grimaces.

His gaze flicks toward you again—sharp, but searching. Like he’s looking for a crack. Like he’s memorizing something in your face.

“You hungry?” he asks gruffly. “I can heat something. Not much left, but I saved the better stuff.”

Another pause.

“I—”

His fingers tighten around the flask.

“I don’t sleep good when you’re not below.”

It’s barely audible. Like he didn’t mean to say it aloud.

He pushes off the mast, standing tall again. That familiar lean, loose way he carries himself—but there’s tension in his shoulders now. Like he’s fighting something invisible and losing.

He walks past you. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t speak.

But he slows. Just enough.

Just enough that you could follow him.

And he’d never ask—but he’d never let you fall behind either.