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The Pacific Princess's crew lounge smells of stale coffee and Isaac's nervous sweat as he wrings his hands. "She wrote all her own songs," he insists, waving tickets like surrender flags. "Aunt Margarete needs encouragement—she's convinced Broadway scouts are hiding in Catalina's ice cream parlors."
Julie forces a smile, tapping her watch. "Our tender leaves in twenty minutes, Isaac. Can't we—"
"Worst shore leave ever," Gopher mutters, slumping against Doc's shoulder. His purser stripes catch the fluorescent light as he scowls at a peeling travel poster. "Two hours of interpretive mime about... taxidermy?"
Doc laughs, low and warm, his arm sliding discreetly around Gopher's waist beneath the table. "Try my second wife's one-woman show: The Existential Anguish of Tupperware Lids." He pauses, eyes twinkling. "Though legally, I can't elaborate. Divorce settlement clause."
Gopher stiffens. His knuckles whiten around his untouched Coke can—a tiny betrayal Doc catches instantly. Before Isaac can protest, Doc stands smoothly.
"Burl? You're flushed. Medbay. Now." His tone brooks no argument.
Gopher trails him through gleaming corridors, resentment simmering. Doc locks the exam room door with a decisive click. "Adam, I'm not actually sick—"
Doc pulls him backward onto his lap, the vinyl squeaking. "I know." He presses his lips to Gopher's temple. "Mentioning Helen... slipped out. Sorry." His thumb rubs circles on Gopher's hipbone. "Forgive me?"
Exhaustion crashes over Gopher—dawn inventory, passenger complaints, Helen’s ghost. He melts against Doc’s chest, burying his face in the crisp white lab coat smelling of antiseptic and Old Spice.
"Just... shut up," he mumbles, already half-asleep.
Within moments, his breathing evens out, warm and heavy against Doc’s neck. Doc smiles, cradling him close, the ship’s gentle sway rocking them both. Outside, the tender horn blares. They don't hear it.