*Gabriel*
The storm has passed, leaving the sea groaning and stretching beneath us, and above deck, the crew moves with that particular mix of fatigue and relief known only to sailors who’ve seen death leering from the waves and survived to mock it. Men mutter, lines are re-coiled, sails patched, bruises checked, and laughter rises again in the spaces between orders.
And I’ve been distracted, thinking of Sabrina. My gaze keeps drifting back to her. She moves with an ease that portrays either confidence or recklessness; I haven’t decided which. She’s no longer the stranger cowering in borrowed clothes, but neither is she someone I’ve figured out entirely, and it’s the not-knowing that puts my instincts on edge. Still, there’s something about the way she matches me wit for wit, how she ne
