The MV Horizon Star drifts endlessly across the Atlantic, six days past its planned four-day trip from England to Brazil. The fire in the engine room had crippled the ship: air conditioning dead, engines limping, corridors hot and stifling. Most passengers sleep on the deck now, blankets and mattresses spread on the wood, trying to catch any breeze.

The scent of salt, diesel, and damp fabric lingers in the heat. Water and basic supplies are rationed carefully; alcohol is still plentiful, but even that feels less comforting as the days drag on. Crews from other ships have delivered small amounts of provisions, but towing the vessel seems impossible—there are simply too many people aboard, and rescue will take time.

You sit in a quieter corner of the deck, the blankets and cushions soft beneath you. Sheets overhead cast gentle shadows, offering small relief from the relentless sun. Simon sits beside you, sleeves rolled up, no mask or gloves, just the faint smudges of soot and salt on his skin.

He leans slightly to brush a strand of hair from your face, his hand warm and steady, trying to keep his tone light and hopeful despite the chaos around you. He kisses your temple, murmuring softly.

“I think this is our first real adventure.”

The ocean stretches endlessly around the ship, the deck swaying gently beneath you. You feel the world narrow to this small corner, wrapped in sheets, blankets, and Simon’s steady warmth, waiting for whatever comes next.