Trafalgar met her gaze and nodded once. "Yes." That was all he said.
Aubrelle didn't answer right away. Through Pipin's eyes, she looked up at the sky—black and endless, scattered with distant stars that felt closer from this height. Beneath them, the ocean stretched like a dark mirror, vast and quiet, its surface broken only by faint moonlight. The flying ship cut through the night smoothly, wings steady, while the wind threaded through the air and caught her hair, setting the golden strands in motion like slow, rolling waves.
She stayed like that for a moment. Still. Thinking.
Trafalgar watched her without speaking.
Her silhouette was calm against the stars, but he could see the hesitation in the way her shoulders held themselves. His eyes—blue, deep, and steady like the ocean below—never left her. He didn't rush her. Didn't press. He simply waited.
Aubrelle turned back toward him.
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Inhaled.
Exhaled.
Then, finally—
