Consciousness was a series of snapshots.
The sharp scent of antiseptic. The low murmur of Raven's voice arguing about wind patterns. The weight of a blanket. And Alyssa. Always Alyssa, her pale green eyes focused with a terrifying intensity as she changed his bandages, her touch surprisingly gentle.
The kiss lived in the spaces between sleep and waking, a memory that tasted like salt and possibility and the kind of desperation that made people do things they couldn't take back.
When Pierre finally surfaced for good, the sun was setting on their seventh day at sea, and the Crimson Sparrow felt different. Quieter, maybe. More settled. Like a house where people had learned to live together instead of just surviving in the same space.
