Page 47 of Autumn L.A.W

“For now,” Ezra said mildly.

“For now,” she agreed.

They climbed back up to the main deck as the city thinned into a suggestion. The ocean opened around them, wide and indifferent.

Sahara braced her hands on the rail and let the cold wind wash over her face.

This was it. Just her, a ley-line mage, a haunted rock, and the Atlantic.

Nothing about this could go wrong… Who was she kidding?

Behind her, Ezra said quietly, “We should talk about how we’re dividing shifts. And boundaries. And what either of us does if the imprint escalates.”

“Dinner conversation?” she said lightly.

He didn’t laugh. Ezra’s expression was calm but serious. This was the version of him that handled dangerous things for a living. The one who measured twice and cut once and then double-checked the edges. She admired that about him.

“All right,” she said, the humor softening into something honest. “Let’s set the rules.”

The ship cut forward, parting gray water and edging it with white. Their very long, very quiet voyage began properly—with structure, caution, and the uncomfortable truth that neither of them knew what lay ahead.

The dining area was technically called the mess, which Sahara thought was a bit defeatist. It wasn’t messy. It was simply utilitarian and practical. Metal tables. Bolted chairs. A coffee urn that looked old enough to be called seasoned. A faint smell of onions and burnt-on whatever.

Dinner was some form of stew ladled into metal bowls by a broad-shouldered cook. A basket of rolls sat under a cloth as if the checked covering were hiding precious treasure.

Sahara took her tray and eyed the contents. “So, it’s something brown,” she said.

Ezra took the seat across from her and stirred his bowl with equal skepticism. “Technically.”

“Does it taste like anything?” she asked.

He licked his spoon and considered. “It tastes like it believes our stomachs are too sensitive to handle much flavor.”

She snorted before she could stop herself, then spooned up a mouthful. It was bland. Warm. Edible in the same way as cardboard would be, if one had enough determination.

“Well,” she said, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s food.”

“Is it?” Ezra asked mildly.

She pointed her spoon at him. “Do not take this moment from me. Nothing has exploded—yet. I’m choosing gratitude.”

He held up his hands in surrender and then took a bite.

His face didn’t change, but the muscles at the corner of his jaw went briefly stoic.

Sahara smiled into her bowl.

Around them, the crew ate and talked in low voices, a multilingual undercurrent that washed around their table without ever quite touching it. She liked that. The anonymity. The way no one here needed her to be anything special.

They ate in companionable silence for a while. The ship rolled gently, the lights humming overhead. Somewhere far below, engines rumbled like a giant with indigestion.

Eventually, Ezra said, “You changed your hair.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your hair,” he said, a little sheepish now that he’d commented. “The color. It’s lighter.”

She frowned at him. “You noticed that?”