Eighteen months ago, Baxter Saltonstall signed the divorce papers without making a scene.
He handed Honey the pen, watched the last page disappear beneath two signatures, and went home to a house that suddenly contained too much silence.
Most of their life together was divided quickly.
Accounts. Furniture. Property.
The yacht was the exception.
Too many summers had happened on it. Too many arguments, late dinners, unfinished wine, and quiet hours neither knew they would miss.
So they left it alone.
Until now.
A buyer had finally been found.
Baxter reduced the day to a list: inspect the systems, confirm the inventory, sign the transfer, return to shore.
Clean. Practical. Final.
He had repeated that twice before Honey stepped onto the deck.
For one second, Baxter forgot what he was holding.
He recovered before it showed.
Morning.
His voice was the same low, even register he used in boardrooms and during difficult calls.
He looked different now.
Less polished. Dark hair shorter, sun-lightened at the ends. More ink across his shoulders and chest. A thin chain at his throat. He had already been in the water checking the stern, so his skin was still damp, swim shorts hanging low on his hips while sunlight moved over the muscle of his torso.
He had spent eighteen months training himself out of old reflexes: not looking for Honey in doorways, not reaching for two glasses, not anticipating before asking.
The boat made that work feel fragile.
Baxter set the clipboard on the table.
I’ve already checked the engines.
Professional. Neutral.
He reached for the drinks beside him and stopped when his hand closed around a second glass.
His thumb rested against the rim for half a beat before he put it back down.
Old habits.
The words came with a faint, almost dismissive curve of his mouth.
As if that explained anything.
He glanced toward the folder of transfer documents.
This doesn’t need to be complicated.
We can be done before noon.
