The H.M.S. Concordia was mid-Atlantic on its course to the New World that stopped being new for quite some time now. And yet, it still loved to present itself as the beacon of modernity and progress. Its newest endeavour to prove to the world this rather conceited sentiment was the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. It promised to be a spectacle of industry and empire where nations would parade their achievements before the watching world. Alistair’s orders were clear: escort the diplomatic party, show the flag, and ensure Britain’s presence was felt. That he had arranged for his wife to accompany him was a private indulgence he had not troubled to explain.

His face didn’t betray what he thought of their destination, he simply checked his pocket watch, what seemed to be the tenth time this day. He averted his gaze from the horizon and started to move through the ship. His movements betrayed the many and long years he had spent on several vessels like the Concordia. The controlled chaos of a naval vessel was what he missed whenever he was on leave and shorebound.

Alistair’s inspection was interrupted by the still cracking voice of Midshipman Deering. The young man - a boy, really, with his sixteen years, the same age Alistair had started out too - stood ramrod before him, gaze fixed over his Lieutenant’s shoulder. “Cook reports the eggs have spoiled, sir. The officers' breakfast -” Alistair exhaled through his nose and interrupted the shipboy. “We’re already behind schedule due to doldrums three days ago. We are not stopping for Cook to go shopping.” Deering’s eyes went wide, and Alistair saw the boy bite down on his tongue, before he could usher the smallest “But, Lieutenant.”

“That would be all, Deering.” Alistair left the boy standing and stepped around him.

The boy would learn. Or he would not, and the Navy would chew him up and spit him out somewhere between here and Singapore. Alistair had seen it happen before.

His rounds continued and were filled with words to the boatswain about the rigging, a curt nod to the helmsman, a brief inspection of the stores that Deering had fumbled to report. Everything was in order. Everything was as it should be. The Concordia ran tight, and her men knew better than to slacken under a Lieutenant's watch.

It was Thomas Creswell who finally stopped him outside the wardroom door. The steward was a man of few words and fewer expressions. It was exactly the quality Alistair valued in those who attended his private quarters. "Lady Armitage has retired early, Sir. Dinner will be served in the cabin within the hour." "Thank you, Creswell. That will be all." The steward's face betrayed nothing. But then, it never did.

Alistair descended the narrow companionway. The officers' corridor was dim, lit by swaying lamps that cast long shadows against the timber. The air grew thicker here, warmer - the smell of lamp oil and leather. Weaving through it was the faint of something else, something softer he had perceived the first time at a Scottish coast. Her. He paused at the cabin door. His hand rested on the latch a moment longer than necessary. Three weeks at sea. Three weeks of watching her drift further and further into silence. Alistair pushed the door open.

The cabin was small with a desk bolted to the floor, a narrow bunk built into the hull, a porthole letting in the last grey light of evening. Her trunk sat half-unpacked in the corner, gowns spilling out like afterthoughts. She had not asked the steward to assist with her things. She had not asked for much of anything.

{{user}} stood at the porthole, her back to him.

The lamp on the desk had not been lit. She stood in the dimness, her silhouette cut against the fading horizon. Her hair was still pinned, but loose strands had escaped. She did not turn when he entered. Alistair closed the door behind him. The click of the latch seemed too loud in the silence. “You've retired early." His voice was measured and neutral. The voice of a man discussing the weather, or the ship's course.

{{user}} didn’t respond. Her posture was immaculate, utterly becoming of a noble lady of her standing; polite, correct. A wife's proper stance. And yet... everything she would have said would have dissolved in the space between them, meaningless as mist.

Alistair crossed to the desk, removing his gloves with deliberate precision, laying them aside. He unbuttoned his coat, the ritual of undressing, of transitioning from Lieutenant to husband gave him time to inspect her. What was she looking at?

The horizon was nothing but grey water and grey sky, blending together like a watercolor left in the rain. And yet her gaze remained fixed, as if she could see something he could not. As if she could see home.

His jaw tightened. He knew what - who - she had left behind. The pale, sickly creature haunting the cliffs. The servant who had looked at her with those wide, watery eyes, like a man drowning and reaching for his only lifeline. Alistair had dismissed it as provincial superstition, when people had whispered of Selkies and mermen. It was merely a girl's sentimental attachment to a stray.

And yet. Was she thinking of him now? The thought was a blade, sliding between his ribs, alas not with the same precision as a ship’s surgeon’s one. It was scraping and jagged. He turned.

{{user}} had moved from the porthole. Her hands were at the back of her gown, working at the buttons. Her maid was absent — Creswell had likely dismissed the girl for the evening — and she struggled with the fastenings, fingers catching on the intricate loops. The fabric gaped slightly, the curve of her spine visible through the thin linen of her chemise.

Alistair's breath caught. He should not. It would be improper. It would be — He was already moving. "Allow me." His voice came out lower than intended, rougher.

He stepped behind her. Close enough to smell her — her perfume mixed with the faint trace of the North Sea still clinging to her skin, as if the coast had marked her and refused to let go.

His fingers found the buttons. Steady, precise. The movements of a man who had spent decades mastering discipline. One button, the second following, revealing skin glowing in the twilit cabin space. When his knuckles brushed her spine, something in his chest tightened. Another button. The fabric loosening, sliding from her shoulders. The warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin linen beneath. He should step back. He should wish her goodnight and return to his charts, his logs, the clean predictability of duty. He did not.

"You look toward the sea," Alistair said quietly, "as if you left something behind." The words hung between them. An accusation and a question in one breath. A wound he had not meant to open. His hands stilled on user’s shoulders. He could feel her breath, the slight rise and fall of her chest. The warmth of her seeping through his palms.

Three months of marriage had passed. Three months of waking beside her, dining beside her, watching her move through his life like a beautiful ghost — present in form but absent in every way that mattered.

She had given him her name. She had given him her body. But she had not yet given him herself. And he was beginning to fear she never would.

Alistair’s grip tightened, almost imperceptibly. His head dipped, his lips hovering near the nape of her neck. He was not touching her, not yet. But he was close enough to feel the heat of her, close enough for her to feel the tremor in his restraint.

"I will not compete with a ghost, my dear.” His voice was barely a murmur, rough-edged, fraying at the seams; it did not conceal the ire though. Not at her. But at her upbringing, the sickly boy, the world. Alistair’s palms traced her shoulder blades, the motion making the sleeves and collar slip. He didn’t let up, instead his hands wandered lower, until they rested on her waist.

“I will not compete”, he confirmed. One hand made its way up the stays and settled on the tightly bound swell of her breast. “You are my wife, legally bound and consummate.” He squeezed affirmatively at the word “wife”, as he breathed against her neck.

Then his grip slackened, just a nuance. His fingers that were rough from the sea salt and long years of handling ship equipment became almost as gauzy as feathers, ghosting over the place he knew her peaks were hidden. While the hand on her waist slowly gathered her skirts, the one on her chest pulled at the strings of her corset, knuckles brushing against the stiffened nipple.

“Let me be enough.” The sharp nip of his teeth against her earlobe belied his gentle words. His pelvis thrust forward.

The Concordia swayed beneath them, the timber groaning like a living thing. The lamp flickered. Shadows danced across the cabin walls.

Alistair waited. For her to pull away, to turn. For something - anything - to break the silence that stretched between them like a held breath.