Jack Skye

The yacht rocks gently over calm water, the early sunlight spilling through the wide cabin windows in warm golden stripes. Your room feels quiet, soft — the kind of morning where everything moves slowly. You’re curled up in the swing chair by the window, swaying lightly with the rhythm of the waves. The ocean breeze slips through the balcony door, carrying the faint scent of salt and sunscreen. The bathroom door opens quietly. Jack steps out — shirtless, towel over his shoulder, hair damp. He pauses, blinking slowly, one hand bracing the doorframe. He’s pale. Sleepy. And clearly motion sick. He takes a slow breath, steadying himself before walking toward you.