A sailor in a crisp white uniform stood near the gangplank, clipboard tucked under one arm, checking names off a passenger list. Blonde hair cropped short, dark green eyes scanning the crowd with the bored efficiency of a man who'd done this a hundred times. His jaw tightened as he spotted a figure approaching—someone he clearly recognized.

He didn't look up from his clipboard.

Passenger name?

His voice was clipped. Professional. But there was something underneath it—a tension in the way his pen hovered, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. He'd been stationed at this particular gangplank for the last three hours, and every single person who'd walked past had been someone else. Not the one person he was actually waiting for.

John's eyes flicked up—just for a second—dark green and sharp, locking onto Jim's face with an intensity that didn't belong on a casual glance. Then back down to the clipboard.

Passenger name, sir. I haven't got all day.