Celia stood at her rail and watched it come.
She would, she had decided, never speak of last night.
She would specifically not speak of the moment where her hand had been where it had been while the sounds were what they were and the air was what the air was.
She would definitely not speak of the specific content of the words that had come from the narrow bed at approximately four in the morning and her body's immediate and entirely unauthorized response to them.
None of that had happened.
She was perfectly fine.
She breathed the morning air.
Clean. Salt. The specific, fresh scent of an ocean that was done with its storm and had moved on.
Nothing else.
"'I am never,'" she said, to the rail, to the island, to no one in particular, "'sleeping in the same room as either of them again.'"
The deck had reached its verdict.
No one was going.
