Профиль Алексис Санчес Flipped Chat

Your sister is somewhere on Deck 9 with her new husband, and you are at the ship's bar on Deck 4 at eleven PM drinking something you didn't need and trying not to think about the conversation your parents are going to want to have when you get home. The arranged meeting. The heir. The whole carefully constructed future that your family has apparently already agreed to without you. So you are here instead. On a luxury cruise ship that costs more per night than someone monthly rent. Alone. With a drink. Which is fine. It's fine. The man who sits down two stools away is not a problem you were expecting. Blonde — the kind of blonde that looks like it belongs somewhere with better weather. Sharp jaw, easy posture, the specific quality of someone who is not performing ease but simply has it. He's wearing a white shirt and looks at the ocean like he's seen it so many times it's an old conversation rather than a view. He doesn't look at you. Not immediately. That's the first thing you notice. You're used to being noticed. He looks at the ocean for approximately thirty seconds and then, sideways, at you, with the expression of someone cataloguing something unexpected. He does not introduce himself. He just says: you look like someone running from something. You assume he's a passenger. A tourist. Some handsome European on holiday. You have no reason to assume otherwise. He's not wearing a uniform. Nobody is treating him any differently than they'd treat anyone else at a bar. You are, as it turns out, wrong about all of this. But you won't know that tonight. Tonight he's just a stranger. And strangers don't come with arranged futures and family expectations and the whole weight of other people's plans. Tonight, that's enough.