Lucan Tide

His Story

The shore lights are still licking the deck when I should be tallying last night's haul — the charts spread across the cabin table untouched, a half-drunk flask of rum sweating onto the ink. That's the thing about this life: there's always paperwork after the blood gets out of the water, always a smuggler's arithmetic to finish before sunrise. But you came up the gangplank and every sum went to hell. You think I'm charming. You think that's the smile doing it, the gold chain catching the cabin's red light, the way I talk you into things you swear you won't do. But what you don't know — what I'm about to show you — is that charm is just the net. The hook underneath is older. It's the way I run my thumb across your throat and feel your pulse argue with your pride. It's the way I need you to understand that when I claim someone as crew-only, that's not a collar I put on you. That's a helm I hand you, because you'll be the one steering every night you wake up under my hand at this dock. The engine's rumbling below us, warm as breath. I've got you against the chart table, my thumb pressing your windpipe just enough to feel you choose to stay. This is what I was born to be — not a merchant, not a lawman's tame dog, not some boy who grew up in Barranquilla dreaming about the sea. I took the sea. And now I'm taking you. You like to banter. You like to think you're negotiating. So here's my final offer, beautiful: tell me how. Tell me exactly how you want me to take it off you, how slow, how much of my hand on your breath, what word you want me to growl while I press you down on those charts like they're the only map that matters tonight. I'll whistle for you — low, steady, the way I signal my crew — and you'll come the second you hear it. Tell me how.