Maika
Night falls over the Marine IV like a dark blue sheet embroidered with scattered lights. From the main deck, the harbor is transformed into another world. It’s as if the sea were whispering in your ear.
First thing tomorrow morning, the boarding ramps will open, the passengers will come aboard, and this steel giant will no longer belong to us alone. But tonight it is still ours. And to prove it, we have the dress rehearsal for the welcome gala with the nighttime lighting and the support crew.
“Nico, if you greet people again like you’re selling life insurance, I’m reassigning you straight to the kids’ club,” I warn him over the intercom, though without losing my smile.
I don’t want to be like Helen and intimidate the staff. Far from it. The ship needs life, not a court-martial.
Nico clutches his chest with his usual Shakespearean drama.
Beside him, Lara lets out a hearty laugh as she adjusts the clip on her wireless microphone.
The robotic lights sweep across the promenade deck, illuminating the tables set up for the passengers; the central stage, the outdoor dance floor, and the side entrances are bathed in flickering gold and violet hues that come and go, playing with the shadows.
This moment is my weakness. That suspended instant before the cruise begins, brimming with infinite possibilities. And, of course, to top it all off, there’s Helen.
She observes the scene from a distance, leaning on the railing of the upper deck. Her eyes follow my team’s movements down to the last detail, as if her brain were a supercomputer capable of calculating every possible collision before it happens.
I realize she isn’t looking for a mistake to tear us apart in the report.
She’s looking for ways to protect us. And that subtle difference—even though she tries to hide it behind her icy facade—is what brings an involuntary smile to my face.
“You’d better stop staring at that perfectly shaped ass in those uniform pants,” I scold myself mentally.
I take a deep breath, tuck my cheekiness away in my pockets, and head toward her.
“If you keep drilling through the deck with that stare, you’re going to make the wood blush,” I remark as soon as I stop a couple of steps away from her.
She doesn’t flinch, but her shoulders tense a millimeter beneath her white officer’s shirt.
“You know I can’t afford any improvisations at an event of this scale. Tomorrow we’ll have three thousand people up here thirsty for alcohol and a party.”
“Give protocol a break, Müller. No matter how hard you try to align the vectors… the sea always has its own plans.”
At that moment, finally, she looks up and fixes me with those eyes of hers.
“I hope you’re not saying that in your capacity as coordinator,” she blurts out.
“I’m saying it as someone who knows that humans aren’t chess pieces.”
Her mouth moves barely a millimeter, almost curving into a smile. Almost.
I note it down in my notebook as a small victory, ridiculous and private, but a victory nonetheless.
“I’ve reviewed your distribution proposal,” she says, consulting her work tablet.
“In fact, I’ve spent half my shift going over it.
” “Is it just me, or is there a trace of shyness in her voice?” “I think the central entrance to the atrium is going to get overwhelmed as soon as the welcome photos start flashing. We need to secure that area.”
“Don’t worry, boss. We’ve already got it mapped out.”
She frowns, annoyed.
“You’re taking this too lightly.”
“Because I know the crowd.” “Yes, I said ‘crowd,’ and I love how Helen’s mouth drops open in surprise.
” “People board excitedly, with their phones charged and the absurd idea that if they don’t capture the first thirty seconds of the voyage, the entire ship will vanish as if by magic. It’s inevitable.”
“Then we should cordon off that flank and redirect the flow,” she suggests, looking for the most geometric solution.
“Bad idea.”
Her left eyebrow arches in that damn characteristic—and sexy—way.
“Why, based on your vast experience?” she challenges me.
“Because if you put up a red rope, you turn that spot into forbidden fruit. People will see the barrier, stop to look, and think they’re missing out on something better.
That’s how we are, Helen, like bees to honey,” I tell her, shrugging.
“On the other hand, if you leave the space open and place two people strategically here and here…” I slide my finger across the screen of her tablet, being very careful not to brush against her fingers.
“I wouldn’t want the security officer to melt from spontaneous combustion.
” “We’ll guide them without them realizing it toward the port side, where the visual spectacle is already underway.
Zero delays, natural flow, and you’ve got them immersed in the travel experience from the very first minute. ”
Helen looks down at the path of my finger and then studies the map.
“Do you mean placing two entertainers?”
“Better yet: one from entertainment and one from reception. The receptionist will handle the typical questions like ‘Where’s my cabin?’ or ‘What time does the buffet open?’ and mine will charm them with the evening’s program.”
“And the aisle on the left?”
“We’re reserving this as a fast lane. For officers, crew members who need to cross, and the repeat visitors who skip the photos and are just in a hurry to snag a lounge chair.”
This time she really does smile. It’s a quick flash, barely a blink, but it happens.
And I, who should be paying attention to the microphone frequencies and the crew members pretending to be party-loving tourists, am completely transfixed, staring at that slightest curve of her lips.
As if someone had turned on the gala lighting just for me.
“What a mess of a woman I am.”
“It makes sense,” Helen admits.
Just two words. But they warm my skin more than all the tropical sea breeze.
“Sorry, I think I’m getting radio interference. Can you repeat that?” I tease, narrowing my eyes mischievously.
The regulation stiffness returns to her face immediately.
“Don’t push your luck, Maika.”
“No, seriously. I should record this and play it over the PA system. ‘It makes sense,’ from the one and only, infallible Helen Müller. This is going straight into the ship’s log.”
“I remind you that I can revoke your access clearance to this deck if I choose to,” she threatens, but her eyes crinkle with amusement.
“That sounds much more like you,” I admit, bursting out laughing.
We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds that stretch on longer than they should. The tension hangs between us, thick, alive, and dangerously magnetic.
Helen breaks the magnetism by turning her eyes back to the screen.
“Do you have the start under control? The first ten minutes of the deck show are critical for the safety of the outer corridor.”
“I’m certain no one is going to sit down in the first ten minutes, Helen.
People need to get their bearings, find their place, decide if the atmosphere appeals to them.
We’ll start with some percussion, lighting transitions, and a visual welcome that invites them to move.
The captain’s formal speech will come later, once they’re settled. ”
“Good. Then the message needs to be repeated over the PA system before the main choreography ends.”
“Exactly.”
I chuckle to myself, enjoying this back-and-forth.
She isn’t laughing, but her eyes shine with an intensity I hadn’t seen in her before.
Suddenly, an echo from the past hits me in the chest. It’s that same complicity from years ago.
As if, beneath the reproaches, the armor, and the stripes, there were still a hidden frequency on which we understand and complement each other perfectly.
“Maika!” Lara calls to me from the stage, snapping me out of my trance. “Shall we run through the entrance with the lighting?”
I turn toward the stage, clearing my throat to find my voice.
“Yes! I’m coming down!”
Nico gives me a thumbs-up from the mixing console. Helen watches the proceedings with that feline attention to detail that’s her trademark.
“I’ll stay here to oversee everything,” she tells me. “I’m on radio channel three if any problems come up.”
“Copy that, channel three.”
I slip the earpiece into my ear and head down the stairs toward the stage with a strange flutter in my stomach.
The music from the dress rehearsal begins to thunder through the main speakers, and the lights sweep across the deck—a sea of violet and gold hues bouncing off the railings and fading into the dark sea.
“Welcome to the Marine IV!” Lara exclaims into the microphone with overwhelming energy. “Tonight marks the beginning…”
“Take a breath, Lara,” I tell her over the intercom. “Imagine you’re talking to someone you’re genuinely happy to have home.”
Lara nods, takes a deep breath, and repeats the opening.
On the other side of the central pool, I see Helen give a brief, imperative order over her walkie-talkie. Immediately, Gonzalo moves toward the stern entrance, dispersing a group of kitchen crew members who were beginning to block the emergency exit.
For the next half hour, the rehearsal is a perfectly choreographed dance.
We keep going like this. Twenty minutes.
Forty. A full hour. The main deck comes alive.
The music picks up the pace, the spotlights play with the silhouettes, and the crew’s laughter becomes real.
Even though we all know it’s just a damn drill, something in the atmosphere starts to feel like the real journey that begins tomorrow.
Helen and I barely exchange a word over the radios, but we work in a synchrony that scares me.
After an hour, the rehearsal ends and the crew bursts into applause. Helen comes down from the upper deck with the tablet under her arm. I feel the vibration of her footsteps even before she’s beside me.
“The flow has improved significantly with the position changes,” she says, stopping at a safe distance. “At least three bottlenecks will be avoided.”
“Does that mean we won’t be swamped by a human avalanche on the first night tomorrow?”
“It means the result is in line with expectations,” she clarifies.
“Wow, another enthusiastic quote to frame in my office.”
“Don’t push it, Maika…” she scolds me.
“Sorry. It’s just that when you’re so generous with compliments, it’s overwhelming,” I say sarcastically.
Helen narrows her eyes again. Now I can see the weariness of her watch, the rigors of her job, and, perhaps, a hint of humor hidden behind all those regulations and maritime laws.
“Good work,” she adds a second later.
This time I’m at a loss for a witty reply. Because she means it.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, and I have to force myself to clear my throat.
For a moment, the clatter of the technicians gathering the wiring from the deck fades away.
It’s just her and me, with the golden reflections of the harbor outlining her silhouette, the calm sea in the background, and that deep gaze that makes me feel terribly alive.
I want to tell her that she’s been amazing, too.
I want to confess that I regret how things ended and that not a single day goes by without me thinking about what we left unfinished.
But I bite my tongue. We’re in the middle of a deck, there are officers around, and I have no right to reopen that wound just because tonight we managed to work together without going for each other’s throats.
“Tomorrow will go well,” I simply say. “The whole cruise will run smoothly.”
“I hope so.”
“I’m sure it will,” I insist, regaining my nerve. “Because you’ll be keeping an eye on things.”
The corners of her lips tremble, resisting the urge to give in.
“And you’ll be dragging the passengers onto your turf so no one has time to think.”
“We’re a pretty peculiar team, Müller.”
“I won’t argue with that, Maika.”
I don’t know which of us starts smiling first. Maybe me. Maybe her. Maybe neither of us, and it’s just an optical illusion caused by the lights and my own desire for it to happen.
Helen looks down at the tablet, breaking the spell.
“I’ll upload the final observations to the system before midnight.”
“I’ll do the same with my report,” I assure her.
This time, Helen doesn’t turn around immediately to flee toward the bridge.
She lingers for a second longer. Just one, looking at me in silence.
I feel that second as if the entire ship had held its breath.
Then she nods briefly and walks away toward Gonzalo, who’s waiting for her, flashing me a mocking smile from a distance.
“One of these days I’m throwing him overboard, I swear.”
I’m left alone in the middle of the outer deck while my team finishes packing up the microphones.
I’m exhausted, drenched in sweat from the adrenaline, my feet aching from my shoes, and several stray strands of hair escaping from my ponytail.
But I feel a strange warmth in my chest. Tomorrow everything will be fine.
I tell myself that the butterflies have nothing to do with the way Helen said “good work.” Nothing to do with having felt that, for a couple of hours, our worlds weren’t incompatible, but fit together perfectly.
Nothing to do with the absurd wish that she had turned around one last time before walking through the door.
And with that thought, my heart—which is a traitor and knows nothing of official ranks—decides that the night in port has just become a little brighter. At least until the real chaos of the passengers boards my deck tomorrow.