Only a handful of silver.

[wintersday]

She slips past your reach to escape behind the wheelhouse, unrepentant when you corner her. She’ll give it back, she says, for adequate ransom. A kiss for every coin returned. There are heavier prices than that. You pin her to the wheelhouse wall – both of you laughing, her trousers undone, your fingers pressing up into wet heat as she moves with your rhythm.

That night, her hair is a cascade of gold over her bare shoulders. Your bunk sinks beneath her sleeping weight, and your dreams, when your eyes close, are untroubled.

As always, when you wake again, she’s gone.