To the Open Water

As they climbed the narrow stairwell to the deck, the air changed—cooler, saltier, alive. The sea stretched out in every direction, endless and blue. The horizon was clean, the sky cloudless. A few gulls circled overhead, their cries distant and thin.

Vix leaned against the railing, letting the wind lift her hair. Gabe stood beside her, his hand brushing hers.

“We’re really doing this, we’re really going to Egypt,” she said softly.

“We are.”

They stayed there for a moment; the late morning wrapped around them. The deck was warm and wide, the kind of space that invited wandering and long, unhurried glances at the horizon. They had pushed away from the dock only two hours earlier, but now they were in the open sea. The water was impossibly blue—not the bright, playful turquoise near the shore, but the color had turned into something older, the kind of blue that felt dark, depth beyond imagination, though clear enough to see into the abyss.

Gabe leaned over, watching the sea churn beneath them. The sun pierced the surface, revealing shadows that moved with purpose—sleek and fast, racing the boat like they’d been waiting for it.

Vix stood, her arms wrapped around him, her head on his shoulder. “It’s unreal,” she whispered.

He nodded. “It’s like looking into history.”

She tilted her head. “How so?”

“Everything,” he said. “Storms, shipwrecks, secrets… some of the greatest navies in history sailed these waters.”

They watched in silence as dolphins arced up and out, their bodies like polished stone.

Vix squeezed Gabe tightly, “I feel small.”

“Me too. But in the best way.”

The sails were full, the hull pierced the swells, and spray mixed in the air as they stared into the day.

“Let’s go unpack,” she suggested, “I don’t want to live out of suitcases for the next 10 days.”

“Whatever you want,” he said with a grin forming, betraying his mischievous secret.

“What is that look? What are you thinking?”

“I was just thinking that maybe we could enjoy the sea in a more… intimate setting.”

“Mr. Cristos, I am a lady, and I am quite sure I have no idea what you are implying,” she stated in a coy, mischievous tone.

Reaching their cabin door, she stopped—eyes bright with freedom, and placed a hand on his chest, “Now, we must unpack before indulging in any… distractions. I think a little nap is appropriate given the morning’s excitement.”

Before she could react, he picked her up, kissing her with a passion that melted her objections.

She broke the kiss, looking at him intently, “Seriously, though, I do want to unpack.”

And with that, he proceeded to unravel her in the most sacred of ways, matching the rhythm of the sea with tenderness and primal sensuality.

The Open Sea, A Scare and New Depth

The next morning, the cabin was awash in soft morning gold—the kind of light that made everything look gentler than it was. Vix sat cross-legged on the bed, brushing her hair with deliberate strokes. She looked almost ceremonial, as if trying to honor the morning with grace, as her grandmother expected.

But by the twelfth stroke, she groaned.

“Screw it,” she muttered, tossing the brush aside.

She scooped her hair into a bun—loose, untidy, strands already falling like rebellion.

Gabe reached for the door, then paused, staring at her. She turned and looked at him, his knees nearly buckled.

That bun—that messy, impulsive bun—was a problem. It framed her face in chaos, made her look wild and free. Gabe felt it in his chest. A thud of want. Not polite. Not poetic. Just raw.

She was just being—radiant, unfiltered, alive. And it wrecked him.

“You gonna leave your hair like that?” he stuttered.

She grinned, catching his tone. “Yes. Problem?”

“It’s a little disrupting.”

“Good,” she said, tilting her head. She turned, but he caught her, spun her around, and kissed her—deep, hungry, no preamble. She melted into it for a beat, then pulled back just enough to speak.

The deck was warm, the wood sun-bleached and salt-softened. Vix walked ahead, her sandals tapping lightly with each step. She hummed something carefree.

He followed, pretending to admire the horizon. But really, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Her presence made the whole deck feel like sacred ground.

She wasn’t trying to be beautiful, but somehow, in the space between ordinary and divine, she’d become the focal point of his entire morning, his entire being.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught his gaze and smiled—not because she knew what he was thinking, but because she was happy.

“You’re staring,” she said, amused.

“I’m admiring,” he said. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh yeah? And what exactly are you admiring?”

He just smiled.

She laughed, “It’s laundry day. Don’t read into it.”

“Too late,” he said in a hushed, factual tone.

She turned and looked at him over the rim of her sunglasses, the smile lingering.

The sound of men working just above them on the upper deck interrupted the moment. The ship creaked and shifted beneath them, rising and falling gently, alive with motion.

Ropes were pulled taut. A winch groaned. Someone shouted in Greek, someone else answered.

Gabe turned slightly, listening and watching the rhythm of labor; the choreographed chaos seemed familiar. Reassuring.

Vix remained transfixed, immersed in all of her senses; the smell of the sea spray, the wetness on her face, the sounds of the hull breaking through the swells. She watched a gull wheel overhead, then vanish into the light as she unknowingly wandered closer and closer to the rail.

Gabe glanced over at her, and he felt that quiet ache again. Not for her body, though that was part of it. But for her ease. Her freedom. Her ability to stand in the flame and not get burned.

He wondered what it would take to feel that free.

Then— his heart stopped.

She stared into the sun, her face serene, her steps slow and unmoored—drifting closer to the rail..

Gabe felt a flicker of dread, the need to bring her back to herself.

“Vix,” he called, firm but calm.

She turned to him, not realizing where she was.

Right then, the helmsman turned into a larger-than-usual swell.

The deck shuddered.

She stumbled, arms flailing, eyes wide, fixed on Gabe.

“Vix!” he shouted, voice sharp now, terror flooding through him as he lunged forward.

Her foot slipped and she fell backward. For a second, she was suspended in the space between grounding and flying. Gabe’s hands closed around her wrist as she tumbled, her toes nearly kissing the water. He pulled her up with a guttural cry, the force of her weight slamming his chest into the rail. She gasped, clinging to him. “I’ve got you,” his voice low, shaking. “I’ve got you.” Her eyes locked on his; the words seemed silent, but his gaze was not. He pulled her up, over the rail, into him. Fear bound them tighter than any ship’s moorings.

A crewman approached, concerned yet composed. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

“I didn’t mean to get that close,” she said.

“It happens quickly. I need to notify the captain. Please—come with me.”

Gabe walked beside her, one hand still around her waist, practically lifting her off the deck—as if anchoring her to the world, but really, to himself.

The thought of losing her paralyzed him. Until now, the fear of losing someone had been hers alone; now, it was his.

The Captain.

The captain’s galley was cloaked in dark mahogany—walls paneled in shadowed wood, the grain running like veins beneath a soft amber glow. It smelled faintly of salt, citrus, and old tobacco. A single lamp hung low over the table, casting a warm pool of light.

Gabe walked Vix to the nearest chair. Gabe knelt in front of her, trying to reassure himself that she was safe.

Seeing something new in his eyes, she touched his cheek.

“Gabe, I’m okay.” Her hand lingered, her thumb brushing the edge of his temple. It was the only part of him that moved.

He didn’t speak; he bowed his head into her lap, his hands wrapping around her waist, his breathing shallow. The emotion weighed on him, squeezing his throat.

Her hand moved gently through his hair, her fingers slow, deliberate, calming.

The silence between them was no longer empty; it was sacred.

The door to the galley slid open.

Captain Stavros stepped through, his expression unreadable, his presence unmistakable. He paused—not out of hesitation, but respect. Gabe, not realizing the Captain had entered, remained, his head in Vix’s lap.

Stavros let the silence acknowledge what words couldn’t.

Vix looked up, her eyes steady. “We needed a place to…”

Stavros nodded once, “Of course,” the gesture more solemn than approving as he stepped further into his galley.

Gabe rose slowly, turning to face the captain. “Sir, my name is Gabriel—”

“Cristos, yes,” Stavros interrupted gently. “I know who you are, Mr. Cristos”, his voice low, steady. “Yanos and I go way back.”

“I know it’s early, but perhaps a little something to calm the nerves?”

“Yes, sir, thank you, but would it be possible to get some breakfast for Vix? We were on our way to the mess when…” Gabe’s voice trailed off.

“Yes, of course, one moment.”

Vix stood and spoke, knowing Gabe wouldn’t speak for himself, “He won’t say it, but he hasn’t eaten either.”

“Understood.” He turned, pressed a button, and spoke in Greek—his voice clipped, formal.

Opening the cabinet of unlabeled, old-world bottles, their glass thick and dark, he took a particular one, poured its contents into a tumbler, and handed it to Gabe.

“Tsipouro. Not for forgetting, but perfect for honoring what is sacred.”

Gabe accepted, “Thank you.”

Vix walked to Gabe, pulling his arm to her, now anchoring him to her.

He couldn’t look at her; fearing what might happen if he looked into her eyes. He just stared at the bronze liqueur swirling around the crystal, but the pressure of her on his arm comforted him.

Stavros turned. “The chef is preparing something. It won’t take long.” He paused. “We need to discuss what happened, for the records.”

Gabe nodded, “Yes, sir.”

The glass tilted in his hand, and he took a long drink. Gabe still wouldn’t make eye contact with her, but had no problem with the Captain. “What is that? He can look at the Captain, but not me…” she thought, recognition, not jealousy, rose in her chest.

She didn’t speak; she just watched the way his jaw tightened when he nodded, the way his fingers curled slightly around the glass but never lifted it.

She loosened her grip, not letting go, but adjusting—to say, “Hey, I’m here, I see you, and it’s ok.” Gabe cut his eyes, barely enough to meet her gaze. His throat knotted like a Gordian. He wanted to soften. He wanted to pick her up, to hold her tightly. She knew it, without him saying.

A soft knock. Stavros turned back, his voice low. “Come in.”

The door opened slowly. A young man in a crisp white apron stepped in, balancing a tray. He said nothing, set the tray down on the table—eggs, bread, fruit, and two steaming cups of dark coffee. The aroma curled into the room with a quiet invitation.

Stavros gestured toward the table. “Eat. I’m going to check on the wheelhouse. When you are finished, please join me.”

Gabe finally looked at Vix. She gave him a small smile— one that didn’t ask for anything but offered everything he needed right then.

They sat across from each other, the tray between them.

The coffee was strong, bitter. He drank it straight, she added cream and stirred slowly, watching the swirl.

When they were finished, Vix leaned back slightly, eyes on him. “You don’t have to say it,” she murmured. “I already know.”

Gabe swallowed hard. Not from the food. From the truth of it.

He reached across the table for her.

“Not so close to the edge, next time… please?”

She placed her hand in his, warm and steady, “I promise.”

They climbed the curved stairwell quietly as the joy of their honeymoon fought to break through the emotion. Gabe’s hand never left hers, but his grip changed—less locked, more tethered.

At the top, the doors parted with a whisper. Stavros watched out over the waters, eyes sharp.

“Captain,” the young man at the wheel said. “Tides are normal. Winds are in our favor.”

“Thank you, Helmsman. Keep us on course.”

Turning to Gabe and Vix, “Ah, welcome to the wheelhouse, Mr. and Mrs. Cristos. I hope the breakfast was satisfactory.”

“Yes, Captain, it was perfect.”

“Good. Let’s go for a walk, and put all of this behind us.”

As they stepped out onto the deck, the warmth of the late morning winds kissed their faces

They passed to the forward rail, where the horizon met the sky in a soft blur of blue. Stavros stopped, turned, and gestured toward the open water, “So, tell me, what happened?” Gabe recalled everything in vivid detail.

Vix spoke up, “It was my fault, Captain. I was caught up in my own world and not paying attention.”

The Captain considered everything.

“Fine,” he said. “This is where you leave it, but know that I’m going to have to log everything, and of course, Yanos will hear about this.”

Gabe nodded, his jaw set. Vix looked out at the sea, then back at Gabe. She saw it in his eyes: not just composure, but clarity.

They stood there for a moment, the wind brushing past them like a benediction.

Vix turned to him, her eyes steady. “What do you want to do?” she asked.

Gabe looked down at her. He didn’t answer right away. He just felt—deeply, fully—for the first time since her brush with the sea.

Then, quietly: “I just want to hold you.”

She smiled, not because it was romantic, but because it was true. “Ok, let’s go.”

They made their way around the deck and back to their cabin. Gabe sat on the bed, still carrying a weight that he couldn’t fully drop. She saw it in his face but didn’t know what to say or to do. Then, one thing felt right. She climbed up on the bed behind him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. She pulled him back into her and held him. Gabe’s hands found her arms where they crossed his chest, touching them like he needed to know they were real. She could feel his body relax as he fell back into her. Her chin rested lightly on his shoulder, her cheek against the side of his head. The rhythm of their breath began to sync—slow, deliberate, like waves folding into shore.

Eventually, Gabe shifted, turning into her. His head found her chest, and she held him there—one hand in his hair, the other tracing slow circles on his neck. She felt the tension begin to melt further.

After a few long minutes, once she felt his calm, she looked down at him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes,” he said.

“When we were with the Captain, you wouldn’t look at me. Why? You had no problem looking at Captain Stavros, but not me. Why?”

The calm he felt seconds before abandoned him. His eyes began to moisten, his chest tightened, his body and his words betrayed him.

“I… if I…” the Gordian suddenly tightened again.

“It’s ok. I’m not upset. I’m just trying to understand.”

He swallowed hard, “If I had looked at you, I think… I would have lost it.” He felt like he was suffocating. “The Captain, he’s easy. He’s order, he’s mission, and Structure. I’m used to that. It’s easy for me, but you… no, you’re… different, there’s nothing easy about you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Vix, you… you… You’re more than I can… It’s like I can’t breathe without you.

Her heart broke watching him struggle. How could this hulk of a man, who’s seen and done such violence, struggle so hard to say a few words?

“I thought I lost you. I can’t… There is nothing without you. You are my oxygen.”

Vix didn’t speak. She just lay there, thinking, hearing those words, “You are my oxygen” echo in her chest, louder than any heartbeat.

She could feel his entire body hitch—barely, but enough. Not from fear. From something deeper, raw. Something even she couldn’t name.

“But you saved me. You always save me,” she whispered.

“You say that, but…” he said, voice thick.

She lifted his face to hers, just enough to meet his eyes. “No. No buts. You will always save me. It’s who you are.”

She paused, her voice softening. “I know that.”

He nodded, unable to speak. She kissed his forehead—softly, sealing the moment like a promise.

Outside, the sea kept its rhythm. Inside, they were finding theirs again, wrapped in each other.

Gabe’s breathing slowed, deepened. She felt it, steady now, like the tide. He had drifted off, finally—his body slack, his face softened.

But Vix remained awake, staring at the wall, her fingers caressing his hair, contemplating, and letting the silence speak.

She thought she understood men. Had heard it a thousand times— “Men are shallow.” “They only want one thing.”

She had believed it, lived by it, protected herself with it.

But now, Gabe had shattered those lies. Not with grand declarations, but with struggle, real emotional struggle, and silence. The way his voice broke when he said, “You are my oxygen.”

He felt. He ached. He loved with a depth she hadn’t thought possible.

They lay there for hours—his sleep light, her thoughts deep—as the afternoon faded into amber.