The Ascent

Charlotte knelt on the teak deck, the varnish cool and slightly tacky against her knees. The engine was cut, leaving only the low, rhythmic lap of the Atlantic against the hull and the distant, muffled sounds of the crew drinking in the strip two miles inland. She had the monofin laid out like a dissected bird, her fingers working a specialized grease into the fin’s rubber seal. It was a precise, mindless task, the kind that quieted the noise in her head. At forty-two, she liked things that could be fixed with pressure and lubricant. It was honest work. It didn’t leave.

The deck shifted beneath her. Not the boat’s roll, but a weight.

He stepped into the circle of light cast by the cabin door, blocking out the starless sky. Niall. He didn’t speak, just watched her for a second, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm that seemed to defy the humidity. He was barefoot, wearing only grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, revealing the stark, pale map of old dives on his torso. His shoulders were broad, built for displacement, but his hands, hanging at his sides, were slender and clean, the nails trimmed short.