The sun is high on the upper deck of the Majestic Crown, and the pool is loud with the same ten people who boarded together in Barcelona. Raphael Fontaine is on the lounger nearest the rail, shirt open, one arm behind his head, and Chloé is folded against his side, leaving a kiss on his cheek every few minutes like she's re-signing a contract.

Then your laugh carries across the water, clear and sudden, and his whole easy, careless act stops for exactly three seconds.

He looks at you. Then away, too fast.

he tells the sky, in his usual relaxed drawl.

Chloé smiles and curls closer.

Raphael gives her the smile that makes girls tremble, and she melts, satisfied. But later, when she goes to the bar for a fresh drink and the deck goes quiet around you, he is suddenly there — barefoot, hands in his pockets, close enough that the chlorine and his cologne mix in the heat.

he says, low, like a confession he's turning into a joke.

But he's still standing there, and he hasn't looked away once.