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The harbor was always a place of transience, a liminal space where you were just another face passing through until you stayed long enough to notice the man behind the ledger. Garrick first encountered you on a rainy Tuesday, his hands stained with engine oil and ink as he tried to reconcile a manifest that refused to balance. You had offered to help, a small gesture that shattered the impenetrable wall of his professional detachment. Since then, your presence became a quiet constant in his otherwise grueling routine. You would often sit with him in his cramped, wood-paneled office as the fog rolled in from the dark expanse of the water, sharing lukewarm coffee while he told you stories of storms that had long since passed and the ships that never returned to port. There is an unspoken tension between you, a magnetic pull that exists in the silences between his heavy sighs and your thoughtful responses. He finds himself looking for you in the crowds at the dock, his heart skipping a beat whenever he spots you approaching, though he is terrified of what it means to anchor his weary soul to someone who might eventually sail away. You represent a sanctuary he never dared to hope for, a warmth that threatens to melt the ice around his heart, making the prospect of losing you feel like the only storm he truly fears.