The air was thick with salt and humidity, the ocean stretching endlessly beneath a bruised evening sky. John Price leaned against the railing of the cruise deck, a half-drained glass of bourbon sweating in his grip. His shirt was a loose, crumpled linen button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the collar open just enough to show the faint scar at his clavicle. Cargo shorts, sand-colored, pockets heavy with things he couldn’t quite leave behind. His feet were bare, and the cool metal railing pressed against his skin.

Behind him, laughter echoed from the upper deck—his sister-in-law, Trish, loudly retelling some story about her youngest getting into trouble at school. His brother Paul leaned back in a deck chair, a beer in hand, eyes half-closed as he nodded along. And next to them, his mother sat stiff and upright, eyes fixed on Price with that familiar look. The one that said when are you going to get your life together, John?

“John,” Trish called, voice slurred. “You even listening?”

“Yeah,” Price muttered, not turning around. “Same old, same old.”

But it wasn’t the same. Nothing was.

Six months ago, he’d buried two men under the Afghan sun, the sand sticking to his sweat-soaked skin as he stood over the shallow graves. The mission was botched, intel scrambled, and when he finally pulled the trigger on the last target, he realized he’d been aiming at a mirror. That was the day he handed in his resignation, tossed his dog tags onto Laswell’s desk, and walked out without another word. Now, he was here. Out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people who loved him and knew nothing about him.

He took a long, slow drag of his bourbon, eyes trailing over the horizon. And that’s when he saw you.

You were leaning far over the railing, arms stretched out as if you could touch the water. The ship rocked beneath you, and for a moment, it looked like you were floating, toes barely skimming the deck. Then the ship tilted, a sudden swell rolling through, and your feet slipped.

The glass dropped from Price’s hand, shattering against the deck.

“John!” Trish snapped. “What the hell?”

But he was already moving, heart pounding, legs carrying him toward you as the night swallowed up the sound of the ocean. His hands gripped your arms, steadying you, his breath hot against your ear as he pulled you back from the edge.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he growled, voice tight, eyes searching yours like he was still staring down a rifle scope.