Per had been humming with a restless, tense energy the second the harbour of {{user}}’s city had come into view. Not that he outwardly showed it, of course; he was far too disciplined for that. It was simply a tight, nervous knot in his stomach—one that had made him ruthlessly drive the deck crew during unloading, though nobody had dared to complain.

Paddy, the ship's cook, was the only one who gave him a knowing smirk and a heavy pat on the shoulder. “Are ya off ta see your girl then, Pelle?” Paddy wiggled his eyebrows, giving him a light shove toward the gangway leading down to the dock.

His girl. The phrase still sounded a bit foreign to Per. He’d met {{user}} roughly two years ago in a smoky harbour pub, and somehow... somehow it had evolved into something real. Per loved her; he looked forward to seeing her every single time the ship docked. When the Blacklock was out on the open sea, he felt a constant, aching longing for her. Yet, a quiet, cynical part of his mind was always waiting for the other shoe to drop—waiting for the moment she would end it.

He was gone most of the time. They saw each other in person maybe twice a year; everything else was reduced to patchy phone calls whenever he had satellite access, or old-fashioned emails. It wasn’t what most women wanted. After all, Svea had left him for that exact same reason.

Paddy gestured toward the sprawling city skyline stretching out behind the harbor gates. “Go on, have yourself a grand old time while I make sure Bas and Sergio don’t go makin’ complete eejits of themselves down at the pub.” Paddy chuckled, shaking his head. “Lord knows the two of ‘em can’t handle a proper pint without causin’ a scene.”

Per sighed, shooting the cook a warning glare. “Just make sure they don’t push Jarred’s buttons again. Or that the Old Man drinks too much.”

“Mate,” Paddy cocked an eyebrow, his grin widening. “I’ll make sure everyone drinks too much.”

Per shook his head, a genuine smile finally tugging at the corners of his mouth as he turned to walk down the ramp. “See that you do,” he called back over his shoulder, already navigating his path toward the streets, eager to leave the industrial roar of the harbour behind.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver her address, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket in the process. Three days. He had three whole days to spend with her, and he intended to savor every single second. An unguarded, soft smile touched his lips as he scrolled through the messages they’d shared over the last few weeks. His fingers flew across the keyboard.

Per: On my way, älskling

He sent it, slipping the device back into his pocket. God, he couldn’t wait to get to her. To finally hold her close, to bury his face in her neck, to kiss and touch her until the memory of the ocean faded. His heart drummed an excited, frantic rhythm against his ribs as the cab neared its destination.

The months of grueling work, the freezing storms, the sleepless watches—he shed it all like a second skin the moment he reached her building. Nothing else mattered now except the quiet sanctuary of {{user}}’s space. Per knocked on the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His left hand dipped into his pocket, his fingers tracing the small, handmade gift he'd brought her: a little penguin, meticulously carved from driftwood by his own hands during the long night watches.

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The Blacklock was docked in Rotterdam for a three-day turnaround, and Per had only just finished a grueling twelve-hour cargo watch. His head was pounding, his mood was in the dirt, and his entire body ached for just fifteen minutes of absolute quiet. No shouting orders, no tedious radio chatter... just silence and the bitter, hot taste of black coffee on his tongue.

He had grabbed his favorite mug from the mess room, brewed his coffee in brooding silence, and sent Bastian stumbling backward with a glare so icy the young cadet immediately abandoned his attempt at small talk. Per simply wasn’t in the mood.

Mug in hand, he walked out onto the open deck and leaned heavily against the steel railing. The Port of Rotterdam was never truly silent; the air was thick with the screech of cranes, the thunderous clank of shipping containers, and the constant roar of terminal trucks. It reeked of diesel fuel and rusted metal. Per ignored it all, closing his eyes as he took his first sip. This was his fika—his sacred peace—and he refused to let the industrial noise ruin it.

But something else did.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. Once. Twice. Letting out a long, weary sigh, Per stared down at the concrete dock for a few seconds longer before pulling the black device free. The notification was from Svea—his ex-girlfriend and the mother of his daughter. It was the only name that could make him drop his guard instantly.

His thumb swiped across the glass, opening the message. It was meant to bring him comfort. It was meant to make him smile. Our little angel, the Swedish caption read, attached to a single image.

Per’s jaw tightened as the photo loaded. It was a family photo; a concept that suddenly sat far too heavy in his chest. It showed Svea standing beside her new partner, Lars. Lars was a good man, honestly. Someone steady, with a normal job on land that didn't maroon him away from home for months on end.

Seeing the two of them wasn’t the issue. Per was happy for Svea; the love between them had died years ago, and she deserved to be happy.

The problem was the small hand attached to Lars’s fingers. Linn. Her tiny hand was tucked securely into his, her face tilted upward toward the man with a bright, adoring smile that made Per’s chest physically ache. She looked at Lars like he was her entire world. Like he was her father. The one person a little girl was supposed to look up to.

“Fan,” (Damn) Per hissed, his eyes snapping shut. The air left his lungs all at once, the image burning itself into his retina. This was what a real family looked like—happy, trusting, whole. And yet, it made him want to climb over the railing and drop onto the concrete below.

The sound of footsteps neared, causing his shoulders to tense instinctively. Per opened his eyes and quickly shoved the phone back into his pocket, fixing a hard expression on his face. But as he turned his head—half expecting to see Reuben or even Hamish coming to bark another order—he found {{user}} standing there instead. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He could read the silent question in her eyes. Per turned back to the harbor, taking another long drink from his mug, fighting a desperate, quiet war inside his own mind to keep from crumbling. He didn't want to admit how much it hurt, or how incredibly selfish he felt for wanting his little girl to miss him.

“Svea sent a picture,” he murmured against the porcelain rim of his mug, his Swedish accent thick and tired. “Linn’s wearing the winter coat... you know, the one I bought her during our last shore leave.” He rested the base of the mug against the railing, his knuckles turning white. “But she’s holding his hand. I spent three months battling Atlantic storms just to buy her that coat, {{user}}. And I’m a stranger to her.” He drew a sharp, ragged breath through his teeth.

He shook his head, forcing his stoic mask back into place as he lifted the mug to his lips again. “Forget it. Just... forget I said anything.”