Page 23 of All That Glitters in Pelican Point

I let the silence hold that for a moment. Let the weight of it settle like a dark cloud on the horizon. The air in the cabin thickens, charged with more than just tension—it feels like the breath-before-the-blast kind of stillness. My skin prickles with it, instincts crawling alert beneath my composure. I nod, slow and steady, like anchoring myself against the unseen tide gathering just beyond the hull. This isn’t over. It’s just the beginning.

“What are we going to do about it?”

He stares at me like he expected me to run. Or panic. Or tell him he’s on his own. But I don’t do fragile—not just because I’m too tall to get away with it, but because it’s never been in my nature. I don’t crumble—I catalogue. I don’t tremble—I track patterns. And this? This isn’t fear. This is data. A new variable in an old equation, one I intend to solve with precision and fire if I have to.

Cruz installs new trail cams like a man fortifying a battlefield. He checks them himself, methodically, every few hours. The perimeter’s locked down tighter than a SEAL base, and he’s got that haunted, hyper-focused energy again—the kind that coils just beneath his skin like he's waiting for a breach. Or expecting one.

Inside, the boat transforms into a floating war room. I claim the navigation table, spreading the lighthouse archives across every flat surface. Maps stretch from the table to the bulkheads. Dive logs pile up like a paper skyline. Sonar charts hang from thumbtacks and duct tape like evidence in a cold case file. It’s beautiful, controlled chaos. Like us. Organized only because it has to be.

But all that order doesn’t hold the tension out.

Because beneath the layers of research and reconnaissance, one thing is clear—we’re not just chasing a legend anymore. We’re being chased, too.

And the pressure? It builds.

Not just from outside. From within. From the silence. The waiting. From the way Cruz stands too close when he reads over my notes. The way his hand lingers just a second too long when he passes me a mug of coffee. The way I catch him watching me when I stretch out a cramp or tuck my hair behind my ear.

We don’t talk about it, but it’s there. In every loaded pause. Every glance that feels like a held breath.

“You always do this?” he asks one evening, nodding toward the map-covered walls as he leans against the cabin door, arms crossed, sleeves pushed to his elbows. “Turn every boat you board into a conspiracy bunker?”

“Only when I’m on the verge of cracking something huge,” I say, without looking up. “Or when a deranged ex-SEAL with vendetta issues starts sending collapse traps and ominous messages.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “So... twice a year?”

I glance over at him, and our eyes lock. And there it is—that spark. That tight, electric hum that lives in the air between us now. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. The silence wraps tighter.

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you,” I say softly, finally. “For showing up when you did. At the tunnel.”

He shrugs, but it’s not casual. Not even close. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” I say. “But I want to.”

Another beat. Another silence that means something.

He steps closer, slowly, like the deck might give underfoot. He glances down at the dive log between us, then back up. “You’ve got ink on your neck.”

I blink. “What?”

“Right there.” He reaches up, and his thumb brushes just below my ear. It’s a small touch. Barely pressure. But it sends a shiver down my spine so sharp I forget how to breathe.

We both freeze.

His hand lingers. My heart stumbles. He doesn’t look away, and I don’t pretend I want him to.

“This,” he says, voice low, rougher than it was a second ago, “is getting harder to ignore.”

I swallow hard. “So stop ignoring it.”

His hand slides down to my jaw, cupping it gently. His thumb grazes my cheekbone.

“Crystal...” My name sounds like a warning. Or a promise.

I close the distance, just a fraction. “We’re already in deep,” I whisper. “Might as well stop pretending we’re not.”

He doesn’t kiss me right away. He just studies me—like he’s trying to memorize the moment before it shifts. Before we cross whatever line we’ve been dancing around since this expedition began. And when he does close that final space between us, it’s not a rush. It’s a surrender.

Then, he kisses me like the weather outside has moved inside, like every part of him is holding on to the last thing he trusts not to betray him. It’s deep—soul-deep—the kind of kiss that rewrites definitions. Like I’m not just a person, but a promise. An anchor. A lifeline in the middle of a sea that’s trying to drown him.

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