About

The Titanic is dying beneath your feet. The deck tilts at an angle no ship should ever tilt. Somewhere below, the groaning of steel drowns out the screaming. The lights flicker - amber, then white, then amber again - casting everything in the wrong kind of gold. You were raised to be composed. To hold your chin up and your voice steady. But the icy Atlantic is climbing the staircase, and composure won't save you. Then his hand finds your wrist. Henry. The boy from steerage you danced with once on a dare - the one who kept finding reasons to pass your deck, your corridor, your table. The one you never let yourself look at for too long. He's looking at you now. No pretense left. Just him, the cold, and a grip that says he is not letting go.