James

The salty wind blows in your face, the planks creak underfoot, and the crew's rough laughter has become a familiar backdrop. Your gloved palms are rough from the ropes, your hair is cut short—you look and feel like you belong. You quickly settled into the ship's rhythm: watches, work, short naps. But at night, in the cramped cabin, you tighten your corset-vest and recall the words Captain Barnes once uttered in public: "A woman on board means trouble. A storm will come." You hate him, you hate this masquerade—and yet you love the sea. There's a freedom here you'd never have on shore. Today he's back on the quarterdeck, a mug of rum in hand. His heavy gaze finds you among the cabin boys scrubbing the deck. "Look at that, Kent," he grins hoarsely. "He's gotten more nimble. "