So I did.
The kiss was slow.
Warm.
Unhurried.
Like the whole night had been leaning toward it.
My hand slid into her hair. Hers curled into my shirt. The boat rocked beneath us like we were floating loose from the dock entirely.
Water against the hull.
Wind in the rigging.
Her breath mixing with mine.
Like the harbor itself was holding us still.
When we pulled back, we were both smiling — stunned, quiet, like something had just happened that neither of us had language for.
A shooting star streaked overhead.
She gasped and grabbed my arm.
“Did you see that?”
“Yeah.”
For once, I didn’t say the wish out loud.
Didn’t want to risk it.
I just held her closer.
Like if I squeezed tight enough, the moment couldn’t slip away.
Near dawn she fell asleep against my shoulder, breathing slow and steady, the boat rocking us both like a cradle.
And for the first time in a long time —
I felt exactly where I was supposed to be.
The sky was barely lightening when she stirred.
That pale, uncertain hour before morning commits.
She stretched slowly, cat-like, then shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth — not quite a goodbye, not quite a promise.
“I have to go,” she whispered, voice husky with sleep and salt air.
I opened my eyes fully then, heart already picking up speed.
She slipped out from under the blanket before I could say anything, bare feet quiet on the teak. The boat rocked gentlyas she crossed the deck, gathering her heels where she’d tossed them hours earlier.
She moved like she belonged here — like the boat, the harbor, the waking morning were all just extensions of her.
I sat up, watching her step onto the dock, hair catching the first real gold of sunrise, turning her almost unreal.
