8
Maika
The welcome party always involves a dose of meticulously choreographed madness, and I enjoy both aspects equally.
The main deck glows under the light display of the outdoor stage.
All around us, the Mediterranean stretches out like a dark canvas dotted with silver sparkles, while the night breeze carries that unmistakable buzz of a new beginning.
We’re sailing straight toward our first stop, and the deck is already buzzing with the excitement of those starting their vacations.
All around me, the usual opening-night scene unfolds: laughter competing with the speakers, the click-clack of heels, shirts unbuttoned too far, kids defying gravity by the pool, and couples posing against the horizon.
Pure, unadulterated movement. And our job is to make all this machinery look spontaneous and effortless.
My team takes up their strategic positions.
I watch them from the technical booth as they adjust their earpieces.
Lara takes a deep breath before grabbing the mic; Nico runs through his lines, silently moving his lips, and Iván pretends to be calm as he reviews the script for the fifth time.
I look at them with a pang of tenderness; they remind me of my own beginnings, of that adrenaline rush that grips your stomach just before the spotlights come on.
“Come on, let’s do this,” I tell myself.
I press the PTT button on the radio.
“Final positions, team. Let the show begin.”
Confirmations come flooding in, crisp and professional:
“Port side active.”
“Forward section covered.”
“Technical aisle clear.”
“Aft station operational.”
The deck is filling up at breakneck speed, exceeding the estimates from the onboard app. Perfect and alarming in equal measure.
“Keep an eye on the kids in the pool area, please,” I say over the internal channel. “Don’t let them take over the center of the pool yet.”
“Copy that, boss,” Lara replies.
The music gradually cranks up the volume. Violet and gold lights sweep across the rows of lounge chairs, catching the glint of the glasses and fading into the sea.
Helen is on the right side of the stage, slightly set apart from the main flow of guests.
She scans the space with the radio clenched in her right hand, analyzing the crowd’s behavior as if she could predict a bottleneck before it even forms. She’s wearing the formal uniform; the dark shirt hugs her body in a way that I now consider a public danger to my concentration.
Her hair is pulled back in a strict style, clearing her features and accentuating that stern expression that I can no longer label as mere coldness.
Now I discern the weight of responsibility, the rigor, and that almost pathological need to shield her surroundings so that no one suffers even the slightest scratch.
The stage spotlights sweep over her intermittently, casting sharp contrasts across her skin.
My physical memory, which pays no heed to ranks or stormy pasts, takes charge of evoking the warmth of her body against mine just a few hours ago in the technical corridor. A sharp chill runs through my stomach.
“Focus, Maika.”
The DJ drops the first hard transition and the crowd responds in unison.
The access points breathe a sigh of relief, and the dynamic flows prove that the safety design we fought over this afternoon in the dining hall works.
Although Helen would rather swallow a mooring line than admit my victory in spatial design.
I activate the frequency.
“Lara, cut the progression on the port side. Divert the group toward the bar.”
“Roger that.”
In a smooth turn, my gaze meets Helen’s. We’re only a few feet apart, but the connection is still there, surviving the years. A couple walks between us, breaking the line of sight. “Better that way. We’re on duty, and the last thing I need is to screw up in front of the entire security department.”
The official presentation begins. Lara commands the stage with ease, and the entertainment team spreads out, opening the central aisle as planned. The crowd relaxes, lets down its guard, and surrenders to the ship’s rhythm.
“Maika,” Iván’s voice comes over the radio with a hint of urgency. “We have a casualty in the central sector.”
“Medical emergency?” I ask, alarmed, pinpointing his location.
“Not exactly. A cruise passenger in a red sequined dress has taken Leo hostage on the dance floor.”
“Can this really be happening…”
I zoom in on the area and a laugh escapes me. There’s Leo, trapped by a tiny elderly woman who moves with surprising agility. The lady is spinning him around the dance floor while my host tries to keep his composure with an expression of utter bewilderment.
Lara bursts out laughing over the internal channel, and I cover my mouth with my hand.
“Take his place, Iván,” I order through clenched teeth. “We’re writing Leo off for this round. The rest of you, stay where you are.”
I glance toward the right flank and see that Helen has witnessed the scene.
Her arms are crossed over her chest, and the corners of her lips are turned up slightly.
A subtle smile, almost imperceptible, but enough to dismantle the rigor of the uniform.
It’s a visual spectacle that should be classified as an occupational hazard.
Because Helen Müller is the greatest danger the universe has ever created.
I close the distance and stand beside her before logic can stop me.
“Assessing the risks of a possible heart attack on the dance floor?” I ask in a low voice.
Helen regains her composure immediately, though the sparkle in her eyes betrays that she wasn’t quite quick enough.
“I’m just monitoring the crowd’s behavior, that’s all. Excessive enthusiasm usually ends in bruises and extra work for the infirmary.”
“Admit it, Müller—that lady has better footwork than your entire team.”
Her gaze returns to the dance floor, where Leo has just suffered a final blow.
“Right where it hurts…” Helen murmurs.
And I’m surprised—just a little—that she was able to joke about it.
We stand by the railing, sharing the space as the captain steps up to the podium for the ceremonial toast. The crowd slows to a crawl, cell phones are raised to capture the moment, and the deck quiets down for a few minutes.
The children, however, continue their own game of tag, weaving around the service tables.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen…” the captain begins, raising a hand to get everyone’s attention.
Some clap, others record videos. And Helen follows everyone with her gaze.
“Everything’s going perfectly,” I say, moving a little closer.
She nods slightly.
“For now.”
“Come on, Helen…”
She looks at me. The golden stage lights shine through her eyes, and for a second, I completely forget what I was going to say. She’s beautiful.
“Enjoy yourself a little and relax,” I end up saying.
Her eyebrow arches ironically.
“Are you giving me instructions?”
“Just friendly advice,” I reply with a smile.
“What a disturbing concept,” she murmurs, and this time she doesn’t look away.
The toast ends, the DJ regains control of the turntables, and the electronic music starts to heat things up again. The passengers regroup, and within minutes, a particularly lively group starts a conga line that begins to snake its way through the tables like an unstoppable current.
“You need to relax. Look how much fun everyone’s having,” I insist affectionately.
“I’m relaxed. I just don’t like moving formations without a safety guide at the front,” she protests.
“Sure… But you should relax that pretty jaw of yours a little.”
Damn, I spoke before I thought.
And, of course, she had to react.
For the first time, I detect a real hesitation in her features.
She turns toward me and falls silent, a prolonged pause where the regulatory barrier seems to give way for both of us.
My own breathing falls in sync with hers.
However, Helen’s pragmatism returns quickly.
She blinks, readjusts the tablet under her arm, and takes a step toward the technical aisle.
“I’m going to check on the upper deck access points,” she announces.
And before I can say goodbye, she dives into the crowd.
I’m left with the words on my tongue and the frustrating feeling of having hit a concrete wall just as the door was starting to give way.
I follow her with my eyes as she cuts through the conga line with elegance; her uniform pants accentuate the decisive movement of her hips and…
“Get your head together, Maika.” Helen definitely should come with a health hazard warning.
I hold my gaze on her path much longer than professional etiquette would dictate, until I see her take her position by the port side entrance, exactly as she was, as if this brief pause had never happened.
“Boss,” Lara appears at my side. “Is everything okay?”
I turn my attention to my assistant, trying to regain control of my racing heart.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
Lara’s smile widens as she crosses her arms.
“Because you were studying Helen’s features with an intensity that isn’t in the manuals.”
I burst out laughing.
“Müller is a constant anomaly on this ship, Lara. Don’t be fooled.”
“Yeah, sure. If you say so…” she draws out the phrase as she turns around to return to the excitement on the dance floor.
I turn my gaze back to the deck. The party is in full swing: the conga line has doubled in size, the waiters are weaving through the crowds, and the music unifies the atmosphere under the open sky.
None of these three thousand passengers can imagine the invisible design that sustains their perfect night.
And Helen remains in her corner. Vigilant. Impenetrable. Distant. Or perhaps not as much as she tries to show.
At least, not in front of me.
I take a deep breath and psych myself up. The situation is getting complicated. It’s no longer just the physical attraction, nor the shadow of the disaster from that last cruise, nor the guilt I carry. It’s realizing that I don’t know how much longer I can hold out without kissing her.