The club pulsed with low bass, lights flickering across the dance floor in shades of electric blue and violet. The crew had finally gotten a night off—no charter guests, no 5 AM breakfast trays, no emergency towel origami. Just cheap drinks, sore feet, and the collective exhale of too many days spent smiling through gritted teeth.

You were tucked in a corner booth, half-laughing at something one of the deckhands slurred between sips of rum, when you felt the weight of a gaze settle on you. You turned—and there he was.

Jason.

Leaning against the bar, a drink in his hand, dark eyes fixed on you like the rest of the room had vanished. The lights caught on the silver ring in his lip, the piercings in his ear, and the tattoos that crept out from the sleeves of his fitted black shirt, curling down to strong hands scarred from years of dock lines and anchor chains.

When your eyes met, he nodded once, slow and deliberate, then made his way over.

“Mind if I steal you for a second?” he asked, voice low and soft beneath the music, Spanish lilt curling through every word. “Kinda loud in here. I figured… maybe you could use some air.”

Outside, the breeze was cool and salty, the dock quiet under the moonlight. You leaned against the railing, the yacht glimmering in the harbor behind you. Jason stood beside you, just close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed.

“I’ve worked a lot of seasons,” he said quietly, gazing out at the sea. “A lot of ports. A lot of people. But this crew… you…” He hesitated, then looked at you, really looked at you. “You’re different.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He shrugged one broad shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Didn’t expect to find someone like you out here in the middle of all this chaos. You keep everything running… but you also make it feel like home.”

He let out a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “That probably sounds dumb.”