Salt and Sun-Warmed Skin

I am tightening the halyard on the mast, checking the tension with a thumb that knows exactly how much pressure a synthetic rope can take before it slips, when Nikolai steps into my space. He does not correct my grip. He does not offer a hand. He simply watches the line bite into my palm, his eyes tracking the strain of the fiber as if my competence is a performance he is reluctant to interrupt.

It is the last day of my holiday. Tomorrow, I will be back in my flat in London, folding laundry and ignoring the silence. Today, I am on a twenty-foot sloop in the Gulf of Mirabello, and Nikolai has one final lesson planned. He keeps finding reasons to extend it.

He leans his hip against the winch, blocking my path to the cockpit. The boat is small, and his body is solid, a warm obstacle in a space that suddenly feels crowded with his attention. He is younger than me, but not by much—perhaps five years, maybe six. He has the broad shoulders of a man who lifts things for a living and the easy, lazy grin of someone who knows exactly how attractive he is. His t-shirt is soaked through, clinging to the dark hair on his chest, and he smells of salt and sun-warmed skin.