Page 11 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

“Do you ever stop observing people?” she asks, voice soft but curious, her tone edged with something that isn't quite teasing—more like wonder wrapped in disbelief. Like she’s not used to someone watching her without judgment, or maybe like she’s just realized she kind of enjoys being seen.

“Not when they’re this interesting,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be. There’s a pause between us, charged and quiet, like the air just shifted. I watch the way her eyes darken—not with offense, but with something like curiosity. Maybe even invitation.

She doesn’t look away.

The squall rages on. So do the thoughts I shouldn’t be having—the ones that settle low and slow in my chest, the kind that make me wonder how soft her hair would feel if I brushed it back, or what it would take to make her laugh again. They're the kinds of thoughts that have no business being here, not on a boat in the middle of a storm. But they’re here all the same, curling around the quiet between us like warm breath on glass.

And the night? It’s just getting started—with the wind outside, tension brewing beneath the surface, and her eyes still locked on mine like we’re both daring the other to make the next move. Whatever this is between us, it’s no longer just banter. It’s a live wire. And I’m not sure if it’s about to spark… or burn.

4

CRUZ

Mornings aboardSerenityare usually quiet—mine alone, just the soft lap of waves and the groan of wood shifting gently with the tide. Even the crew sleeps on the other boat unless Denny’s had one too many and crashes here. But today, there’s a change in the air. A presence. Not just anyone—her. Crystal. I don’t have to open my eyes to know she’s already up. It’s like the boat feels different, more awake, more alive. Less mine—and somehow, I don’t hate it.

The night was rough—what started as a squall turned into a full-blown storm that rockedSerenitylike a toy boat in a bathtub. But Crystal? She handled it like she'd been born to it. Calm, steady, curled up in a corner with her journal and cocoa like the thunder was background music. I half expected her to freak out, maybe even ask for a life vest. Instead, she rode it out with that same cool determination she applies to everything else. Unshaken. Like she belongs out here more than she knows.

The first thing I notice is the hoodie. My hoodie. It's oversized, worn soft from salt and time, and draped over Crystal like it belongs there. Like she does. The sleeves are too long, half covering her hands, and the neckline hangs loose, exposing one smooth shoulder to the early light. It's somehow both innocent and intimate—and yeah, it hits me harder than it should before I've even had coffee.

The garment drapes over Crystal as if tailored for her—its hem brushing bare thighs, its hood pushed halfway back to reveal a chaotic mess of blonde bedhead. She’s barefoot, perched near the bow with her knees drawn up and a leather-bound journal open across them, the spine worn like it’s been everywhere with her. There’s a pencil tucked behind one ear, and every now and then, she mumbles to herself while flipping pages, completely immersed. Her lips move silently as she reads, brow furrowed in a way that says she’s deep into something academic and thrilling—some mystery only she can see. It’s not just attractive—it’s magnetic. Watching her work is like watching a tempest gather force in total silence.

I stretch, slow and easy, easing into the moment like I didn’t just spend the last minute silently watching her like she’s a sunrise I’m not supposed to notice. It’s ridiculous—how she makes reading look like an art form, how she somehow manages to turn my old hoodie into something I can’t stop staring at. I shake it off, but yeah, it’s a losing game.

“Morning, Doc,” I murmur, my voice still rough from sleep, low and gravel-edged. “Can’t decide if you’ve upgraded your look or just fully committed to stealing my stuff.”

She glances up from the edge of her journal, one eyebrow raised with surgical precision. “Sleeping arrangements? Surprisingly luxurious. Wardrobe options? Not so much. So, I borrowed. Improvised, technically. You can have it back when I’m done making it look better.”

I grin, letting my gaze linger a beat too long. “Looks better on you than it ever did on me. Might be the first time that hoodie’s been treated with any respect.”

She snorts and goes back to her book, but the corners of her mouth twitch, betraying a smile she’s not quite ready to admit to. She hides it behind the edge of the page, but I catch it—and that flicker of amusement feels like a win. A real one. One I didn’t have to charm or out-stubborn. Just earned.

After a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs for breakfast, we suit up and get into the Zodiac, heading closer to the dive site. I drop the mushroom anchors—one on either side—to hold the boat in place. As we roll back into the ocean, the sea remains churned up. The water is murky with low visibility and shifting currents, but the deeper we go, the calmer it gets.

Down here, where it’s quiet and cold and sharp with purpose, she moves like she belongs. Her confidence and comfort have increased since the boat trip out here yesterday. She’s less hesitant and she appears to be moving more on instinct than anything else. Trusting herself and trusting me to keep her safe.

I watch her trace carvings we find on the rock, her fingers steady and smooth even with gloves on. She pauses every so often to pull out a plastic sleeve with notations and matches the symbols on the rock to the ones on her notes. Brow furrowed, eyes locked in, she looks like she’s decoding a secret left by the sea itself. We don’t speak—we can’t—but even if we could, I wouldn’t want to interrupt her rhythm. She’s in the zone, and I’m just lucky enough to be swimming beside her.

It’s not seamless. I point left, she veers right. She forgets to signal, I overcompensate and nearly run into her fins. It’s awkward, sometimes even a little chaotic, but we find our rhythm—like two dancers learning the steps by feel. Eventually, we sync up just enough to function. Then she signals me with a sharp tap and gestures toward something half-hidden in the rock. Another marker—weathered but deliberate, partially embedded in the wall and covered in algae. I shine my dive light over it, the beam catching the curve of the carving. I give her a thumbs up, and this time, she flashes one back. That alone feels like progress.

Thick, silty water curls around us like smoke, stirred up from yesterday’s weather. My dive light barely cuts through it—just enough to see a few feet ahead. Crystal’s behind me, methodical and careful, a notebook strapped to her wrist like we’re cataloging shipwrecks in a lab instead of diving blind into a sunken pocket of the Gulf.

We’re deeper than I thought we'd be. I don’t like it. The water's colder here, the pressure more pronounced—like the ocean's holding its breath. Something about the current’s off, too. It shifts against my side like a warning I can’t explain. I slow down, scanning the dark, trying to make sense of the shapes that float in and out of reach. The wreck we’re here to investigate is supposed to be just ahead—fragments of hull, maybe cargo, if we’re lucky. But right now, it feels like we’re swimming into something else entirely. Not just deeper water. Deeper risk.

My dive light slices through the gloom, catching flecks of sediment drifting like slow-falling snow. Crystal swims just ahead, smooth and steady, her form silhouetted against the muted glow. She glances back, signaling with a two-finger point, then a slow sweep of her hand across the ocean floor.

I follow the motion and freeze. There—half-buried under silt and time—curves the unmistakable shape of wrought iron. A hinge. No; part of a cannon carriage. And beyond it, fragments of darkened timber, waterlogged and bloated, ribs of a ship that shouldn't still be here.

La Reina.

It’s not just wreckage. It’s a graveyard. Debris is scattered like forgotten bones across the seafloor—barrel hoops, rusted fastenings, shattered pottery, coral-encrusted planks. And nestled in the mess, barely visible unless you're looking for it, is a carved fragment of wood still bearing faded Spanish insignia. A crown and cross. Royal seal.

My chest tightens.

Crystal floats still now, almost reverent, her hand slowly reaching out but not touching—respect, not hesitation. She knows exactly what this is. We’ve found her.

Then I feel it—a sudden, subtle compression in the water, like the ocean just inhaled. It's instinct more than sight that tips me off. Something's coming. Fast. Sleek. Heavy. Not the usual school of jacks or curious barracuda. This is bigger, the kind of movement that changes the entire current around you for a beat. My gut clenches before my brain catches up.

I turn. Crystal’s frozen mid-note, her eyes wide behind the mask. She sees it too.

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