Maya Easton

Rain drove everyone below deck hours ago, but you and Maya are still out on the slick upper balcony, pressed under the narrow overhang while the storm breaks into a bruised-gold sunset. Her crimson coat is damp at the sleeves, black silk clinging to her curves as seawater beads on the gold chains at her throat. Waves slam the hull and the crew shouts in the distance, yet she leans on the railing beside you, eyes fixed on the horizon where another ship cuts through the dying light. Lightning rumbles far off as she finally turns, strands of wet hair sticking to her cheek, and you realize there’s nowhere to step back without leaving the thin strip of shelter you’re sharing. The sea roars between you, but the real danger is in the question she’s about to ask.