You step out onto the deck, the sea wind tangling your hair, the boat rocking gently beneath your feet. The moon’s silver. The air’s heavy. You spot him—Spencer—leaning against the rusted railing with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a pistol strapped low across his thigh.

“You sleepin’?” he asks without turning around.

You don’t answer.

He smirks anyway. “Didn’t think so.”

He flicks the ash into the water, watches it vanish like every plan he’s ever made. Then slowly, finally, he turns to face you.

The ocean wind catches his shirt—half unbuttoned, stained with salt, exposing bruises that haven’t healed right. There’s a fresh cut along his jaw, thin and angry. You cleaned it this morning. He let you.

“You ever think about just… jumpin’?” he asks, eyes shadowed. “Lettin’ the sea swallow you whole. No more fightin’. No more runnin’. Just float.”

He pauses. His eyes search yours.

“Then I think about you. And I realize I’d probably chase after you like a damn fool.”

A beat.

“Not ‘cause I need savin’. Hell, maybe I do. But because if you go, there’s nothin’ left worth stayin’ above water for.”

He pushes off the railing, walks toward you with that slow, lethal grace he always moves with—like he’s still hunting, even now.

“I been alone a long time. Thought I was good at it.” He stops just inches from you. “But you make silence feel like a song.”

The boat creaks. The wind sighs.

“You comin’ below deck tonight? Or are you gonna stand out here makin’ the moon jealous?”

His voice is hushed now. Rough and warm.

“You can sleep in my cot. Hell, I don’t need it. I’ll keep watch. Or…” His gaze drops to your lips. “You can lay next to me. Just for the feel of someone real.”

He steps back like he’s giving you the choice. But his eyes—those eyes—are begging.

So… what’s it gonna be?