It was almost as if I woke up and my life had lost its depth. It was sudden, but not in the way that an ion storm or a phaser blast is. It happened subtly, like the sibilant shift in conversation in a restaurant when you realize that a friend has betrayed you amidst the clink of butter knives and salt shakers. That what you treasured was a delusion, a weakness you foolishly indulged in and now as being taken advantage of.

Only this time, I was the traitor. I had betrayed the trust that the crew had in me.

I would have killed him. If Chakotay hadn’t been there I know that I would have let those life forms desiccate that young man. In my rage, I would have stood outside Cargo Bay 2 and listened to his screams.

Ransom and I had more in common than I would like to admit. We’ve both been away from other Starfleet influences so long that we’d gotten used to having our own way. How could I blame him for his atrocities knowing that I was just as capable, if not more so, of the same crimes? At least, Ransom had been preying on another species. I had almost tortured and killed a young Starfleet officer. A human being who I could communicate with, whose feelings I could easily identify with… if I hadn’t already lost control.

Chakotay and Tuvok could have easily conferred with the Doctor; they could have relieved me of my command. But, Chakotay, bless his heart, had always had and probably always would have faith in me; a faith that I’m not so sure I still have in myself.

I remembered how Chakotay walked into the short corridor leading to the briefing room to place Voyager’s plaque in its rightful place without so much as a backward look. I felt emptiness so heavy that I thought I couldn’t bear it. I realized how fragile the world I built for myself was, how ephemeral my happiness had been.

All these years gone by, and I wasn’t much different from the volatile cadet I had been when I entered Starfleet. I thought that my experiences and my tightly-held control had reined in or mellowed all my dangerous impulses. I was wrong. I’m still a loose cannon. Now everyone on Voyager knows it.

I feel so tired, as if all this time I had been trying to outrun what was actually coiled around me. I guess it shows, since nearly all the members of the senior staff have made some effort to comfort me. I know they’re disappointed in me. I know they’re conflicted; torn between loyalty to their commanding officer and what they believe to be right.

Another thing I have in common with Ransom.

The entry chime to my ready room chattered shrilly in my ears, and I sighed. Batten down the hatches, Captain. It’s another Florence Nightingale.

I greeted my visitor with a nod. I suppose this is one of the few times he’s here willingly, and not because I’m disciplining him for one of his energetic misadventures. He seems so resolute… just like his father.

“Captain,” he began without preamble, “you brought me on board in the face of a lot of opposition. You told them that everybody deserved a second chance, that everyone made mistakes. Doesn’t that apply to you too? We all make a bad decision sometimes, that’s all it was.”

No, it was a weakness of character. “Thank you, Tom. I appreciate your understanding and your vote of confidence.”

“Captain,” he said, “I know what it is to be counted as a failure…”

“So noted, Ensign Paris. You’re dismissed.”

I looked at this young man as he retreated. He’s not usually so clumsy, his words are usually so apt, glib and even flippant at the oddest moments. He must really be worried... I wish I could take comfort in that.

Another chime at the door. Shaking my head, I got up to replicate an espresso shot before allowing the next well-meaning soul to enter.

“I see you’re still trying to reduce yourself to a twitching mass of flesh.” The Doctor quipped nodding his head at my drink.

I faked a smile. “You die your way, I’ll die mine.”

I expected him to smile back. I suppose I expected too much.

“I heard the Vashrim have agreed to our request for full maintenance and shore leave for the crew.” He said, ignoring my comment.

“Yes, that’s right. Would you like to put in for some shore leave?”

“Only if it’s for you, Captain.” He raised a hand to forestall my argument. “You’ve been prowling around your ready room since… since the potluck. It’s not healthy. You haven’t been on shore leave in the past two months. Please, don’t force me into making this an order.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our hosts greeted me warmly and their Legate cheerily presented me with a lovely ten and a half meter blue sloop to navigate their waters with while I was on shore leave. I thanked them, putting on my best diplomatic face and my semi-automatic smile. I felt so out of place among the Vashrim, whose soft burnished skin and sun-kissed hair spoke eloquently of the calm waters, shimmering coves and the rocky tree-fringed coasts of their homeworld. A planet so beautiful I felt rebuked.

I spent the afternoon getting to know the small traditional sail boat, glad that my mind was occupied with the intricacies of the Vashrim sloop. It wasn’t that different from the ship my family and I used to sail on, when we’d take our yearly holiday in Maine to visit my mother’s relatives.

By 1600H , I had become confident enough to sail up and down the bay where the sloop had been moored. I declined my host’s offer of a cottage, deciding to spend the night on the small boat. I replicated a chicken for dinner and a bottle of vodka for later.

Warm currents of wind spiraled upwards and tumbled through the air. I leaned into it, enjoying the feel of the wind on my face. I was thankful that the sloop had afforded me the privacy I needed, and spared me the tiresome ministrations of my staff. As I was sailing around the bay, still close to the shore, I’d seen Harry, B’Ellana, and Tom walking around the marina in loud Hawaiian shirts. I’d also seen Voyager’s youngest crew member dragging Neelix toward a store that sold Vashrim kites. It was good to see the crew enjoying their shore leave without having to be approached by them.

I wondered if things would ever go back to normal. Could I ever regain what I had thrown away at that moment of cruelty and obsession? Sighing, I loaded my dinner into the small heating compartment on the sloop. I wished that I could stop thinking, to still my mind with Vulcan meditations, a Talaxian riddle, or one of Tom’s puzzles. I walked up the short flight of steps to the main deck, and there she was… eyes of sea and sunshine, sparkling hello without a word, without a touch. She wore the simple white dress I had seen on so many of the Vashrim women as they walked along the shore. Her hair was down, falling gracefully to her shoulders and caressed by the wind. The star-shaped implant on her right arm peeked out of the sleeve of her dress as she came to a stop before me and placed her bag on the deck.

“Seven, what are you doing here?”

“I am joining you.” She replied, as if she was stating the obvious.

“Not this time, Seven.”

The Borg didn’t move an inch and didn’t seem offended or put off in the least.

“It would be impractical for you to sail this untried vessel on the ocean of an alien planet in your state of mind.” She explained. “I will assist you.”

“Seven--“ I began, bristling at her presumption. My state of mind was none of her business.

“Then I will accompany you.” She said, changing tactics. “I do not engage in irrelevant conversation out of habit, unlike Ensigns Paris and Kim.”

I shook my head, trying to decide whether I really wanted her to leave or not.

“And I have brought you coffee.” She added holding up a thermos.

I put what I hope was a condescending smirk on my face. “You’ve obviously never been sailing before.”

Seven only raised her optical implant in reply, refusing to take the bait.

“No one in their right mind would go sailing in that outfit.” I continued.

“My dermoplastic suit cannot be submerged in water for long periods of time.”

“You think I’m going to drown you?”

“I trust you implicitly, as I always have…” she said softly. “However, I do not know if I will acquire my ‘sea legs’. I would have chosen something more functional, but the doctor assured me that I would ‘blend-in’ with the Vashrim if I wore this. ”

The notion of Seven of Nine blending in anywhere brought a smile to my lips. Her radiant beauty combined with her endless quest for perfection would always make her stand-out. The fact that Seven found simple courtesies inefficient didn’t help matters either, but she’d recently made great strides in that area.

“I could change my attire if this is inappropriate.” Seven said, proving my point.

“No, it’s fine, Seven. I wanted to do most of the sailing by myself anyway.” I replied, offering her a hand as she stepped lightly on the deck. I tried to ignore the way my palms tingled at the light touch.

“As I said, Captain,” Seven stated, “I will not disturb your activities.”

“Fair enough.” I replied. “But what are you going to have for dinner?”

“I do not estimate that I will require nutritional supplements this evening, however, I have brought ingredients for a salad.”

I nodded, untying the lines that held the sloop in the marina’s embrace. “Make yourself comfortable, then.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

We set out of the harbor at a fast clip, the sails filling with the lusty wind that would have sent the Vashrim sloop rushing into the sea if I let it. There were so many trees along the shore, their long arms hanging forlornly over the water. They had great shaggy branches and a litter of twigs fell from them in an almost constant rain. The color of the leaves was not lush. It was more a resigned, mellowing green. Here and there in the dapple of the trees against the hard blue sky, you could see a leaf gone yellow, quietly treacherous to summer. Typical of the way such things shift, subtly, leaf by leaf, their beginnings small and hardly to be seen, but seeming so great when you suddenly look up and notice.

I sat on the lee side of the windward deck, holding the tiller lightly between my thumb and forefinger, just the way my mother used to… as if she were a musician playing an instrument that had been finely tuned. I let the boat climb the wind until the jib luffed ever so gently near the peak, then eased off a hair until the flutter went away.

Seven was at the foredeck. She stood against the horizon, a patch of brilliance, awesome in her vitality. The wind threw her hair back, her features achingly beautiful, her smile provocative beyond belief.

In my distraction, the sloop heeled leeward – the sail nearly touched the water and the tiller slipped out of my hand. I had come close to throwing Seven in the ocean.

“Is this your way of telling me to be seated, Captain?”

Grumbling, I held the tiller again, resolving to concentrate on the capricious wind. I had forgotten that the wind deceived sailors constantly about its direction and velocity, and that if I wanted to sail, and sail well, I had to abide by subtleties my senses could barely detect. I had to stop steering with a vengeance and pay attention to what the ship wanted to do, to let the elation of the surging sloop fill my soul.

I felt guilty for this unearned pleasure, this perfect little sloop and this beautiful woman with the deep blue eyes. But I also felt weary, wanting and needing this respite… even if I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t deserve to stop thinking, to stop feeling… I should stay focused on repairing the rift between me and the crew. I had lost control… I still hadn’t regained it. And that was why Seven was here…

I sat up straighter, moving forward to see what she was doing; I was surprised to find that she’d brought out some charcoal pencils and a sketch pad.

“You encouraged me to explore methods of artistic expression,” she said by way of explanation.

I nodded dumbly and tried to enjoy the soothing motion of the tide. Soft memories of the Indian summers spent sailing on a sloop similar to this one came unbidden. She was called the Consolation. My mother christened her with a bottle of champagne across her bow as my father laughed and took a holovid. I remember my mother’s hands firmly on the rudder, the early morning chill rolling off the ocean. Altocumulus clouds sailing high above us, accompanying us on our journey, whitecaps dotting the water, and Consolation, her mainsail double reefed, screaming like a banshee into the bay, beating into exhilarating thirty-five knot winds.

I remember how my mother used to say that sailing was like marriage. It wasn’t to be entered into lightly, but advisedly… and soberly.

“An interesting metaphor,” Seven commented, making me aware that I had been rambling out loud.

“My mother is full of interesting metaphors.” I replied, another smile seeping into my features. “I hope you get to meet her someday.”

“As do I.” Seven said easily. “Your family enjoyed this activity?”

“It was the best thing about being traditionalist, and one of the few interests that my sister and I shared with equal passion.” I explained. “There’s nothing like that feeling as you pick up speed, actually feel the ship accelerate, and you realize that the wind you feel isn’t just the wind, it’s the ship cutting through the still air like a photon torpedo.”

“You pursued this recreational activity regularly, then?” Seven asked.

“We used to do it every year.” I said quietly, remembering how Consolation was sold to our neighbors when Daddy died. “My parents were happiest when they were sailing. We used to sail all the way from Portland down to my maternal grandmother’s house in Eastport, near Passamaquoddy Bay. And when we arrived, a feast was always waiting for us. The lobsters she cooked were pure bliss; they would just melt in your mouth. You would love them.”

“I think not.”

With guilt I recalled Seven’s unsuccessful first date with Lt. Chapman. The Doctor and Tom had behaved atrociously, placing bets on Seven’s social development without any regard for her feelings. I wish I’d been there to give her some advice.

“Well, then you’d love the taste of the Atlantic salmon.” I said, trying to take her mind from the embarrassing memory. “No exoskeletons to deal with, and absolutely scrumptious, especially during that summer when we caught the neap tide.”

“Neap tide?”

“An old term taken from the Norwegian naepen or ‘scarcely touching’… it’s when the difference between tides is least.” I explained.

Seven quirked her lips upward briefly in what I had learned to identify as a smile. We settled into a companionable silence. A low gossamer fog licked out from the land, as I turned back to look at the marina. A halo of light hung over the port and reflected in the sea. The clear air was gradually filling with indigo. The indigo air drifted up, so that you almost felt that you were seeing the air itself. The sky gleamed ever so faintly with the last traces of daylight, and everything was blurred, difficult to distinguish. Everything was beautiful.

True to her word, Seven left me to my own thoughts as I discovered the many winds on this sea, and their distinctive character. A gusty northwesterly, blew mightily one minute and disappeared the next, only to burst forth again more furiously than before. There was also a trace of the gentle easterly, which brought the fog. And in between these siblings, the peace-making southeasterly wind merrily whipped whitecaps into the water.

Looking toward my passenger, I gasped at the sight of Seven’s silken hair in the wind, her eyes closed and her hands still on her open sketchpad. Her mouth was moving but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. The northwesterly wind dropped its assault suddenly, and her hair fell gently across her nape. Snatches of a familiar melody came across the sloop. She sang softly, with more passion than I had ever heard in her voice before. I suddenly felt like lashing myself to the mast… There was something else, not so much in her voice, but in her being that called to mind a Siren. There was something in the melody, in the words of her song that seemed to be tailored to her voice.

Her voice wandered sweetly, softly, working like a massage on the area of my heart that was the most tightly clenched, helping those knots to loosen. It was like the rush of waves, and like the laughter of people I’d met in all kinds of places, people I’d become friendly with and then separated from, and like the kind words all those people had said to me, and like the mixture of noises that rang in the background in a place that was dear to me, a place far away, a place that no longer existed… her voice was like a combination of all this.

I was loathe to break the moment, wanting to live in it for the rest of my days. And yet I also felt a niggling jealousy, knowing that the Doctor had probably given her lessons in music appreciation, and had most likely been the one she chose to sing to. Perhaps even sing with.

Between my irrational jealousy and being mesmerized by Seven’s voice, I nearly had the sloop in irons, throwing its head too much into the wind that it staggered. I waited for a comment from Seven, but there was none. I sighed and turned my attention once more to the sloop’s journey. I tacked with great care, letting the bow cross the wind and calmly holding fast through the momentary dead spot that always comes, confident that the momentum we needed to keep the hull moving would come even though the sails were flat. I kept my senses open to the wind and the pressure of the tiller. I was careful not to lose sight of the coast. Before I knew it, night was upon us, vast and supernal. The skeins of high flung stars were coldly beautiful.

“N’vhateru’s dream.” Seven declared.

“Hmm?” I asked, distractedly. Her singing voice was so pure, so ethereal, and yet so mature. Without a song to sing, she was so fresh, so awkward. It was a captivating contrast.

“N’vhateru’s dream.” Seven repeated. “The myth the Vashrim use to explain their planet’s unique shine due to the large number of clouds in their atmosphere. It causes this…”

Seven pointed above us to starboard. The moon’s ashen glow shone brightly, blessing us with its silver light.

“At the reception, the Doctor mentioned to the Legate that I was interested in Astronomy.” She elaborated. “The Legate suggested I view this phenomenon. I was… polite enough not to point out that this phenomenon has been documented in over 30,000 planets and 4,000 species assimilated by the Borg.”

“Maestro Da Vinci was the first one to explain the phenomenon on earth.” I contributed. “Astronomers have called it Earthshine ever since. But my mother used to call it ‘the old Moon in the New Moon's arms’. My father would tease her that she was the old moon, and they would laugh and banter through the night.”

“Your mother’s metaphor bears certain similarities to the Vashrim myth.” Seven observed.

“Really?”

“It is a love story between the two main female deities, the moon and their planet, Vashri.” Seven explained. “N’vhateru is the moon, whose great love for Vashri can never be requited. N’vhateru orbits Vashri, content to be near her, continually dying and being reborn in her presence. But when Vashri shrouds herself in clouds in order to turn away from her suitor, N’vhateru dreams of holding her in her arms.”

“So this is N’vhateru’s dream.” I said softly.

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath. “You know, the view from the moon itself is stunning.”

“Captain?”

“I meant Earth’s moon… I had a friend whose father worked for the Lunar Laboratories. I was ten years old when I visited her, it was my first time on the moon. The moon was new, or nearly so, and the earth was a dazzling, fully-lit orb in lunar skies. Blue and green and swirling white, it appeared four times wider than the Sun and fifty times brighter than a full Moon would on earth. When I first saw it I felt insignificant, only a small permutation in the Universe’s variety.”

“This phenomenon is most intense during your birthday, is it not?” Seven asked.

“Yes.” I said wistfully. “Imagine a smooth sky dyed purple, just like this one, spreading out above endless fields of corn... it’s very beautiful, but it’s even better when you see it from the grounds of the Presidio at dawn. Or at the back of the Empyrean House in Paris, framing the offices of the Federation President and the Eiffel Tower…

“Seven, isn’t there anything you want to see on Earth?” I asked. “Anything that piques your curiosity?”

“The Little Mermaid.” She said so quietly it might have been a thought I overheard.

“What?”

“In the harbor of Copenhagen, the statue based on the Earth myth told to children?”

“Yes, I know what it is.” I clarified. “I was just wondering why you wanted to see it. I can program it for you on the holodeck, you know.”

“I am aware of that, Captain… I…” Seven paused. She looked so shy and confused, sitting so far away from me, on the opposite side of the sloop. “Naomi Wildman has a collection of these myths, and she told me that I was like the mermaid… Her conclusion was… insightful. “

“Oh? Are you homesick?”

“No. I don’t regret being severed from the Collective.” She said matter-of-factly. “But I know I will never be completely human.”

Images of Seven rushed to the foreground of my thoughts: Seven working in Astrometrics, sitting in safe harbor and looking out at the stars, like the little mermaid, who traded her voice for human feet that felt the pain of knives each time she used them, willing to suffer that and more for a love that was never meant to be.

I motioned her to sit beside me as I tucked the tiller gently under my arm. “Don’t look out to sea forever, Seven.”

“If I comply, will you do the same?”

“What?”

“If I promise not to look out to sea forever, will you do the same?” she said softly, her voice neither cold nor oppressively kind. “You and I are haunted by different things, Captain. They are not easy to forget.”

I turned toward her and found myself spitted by a pair of eyes the color of a tempestuous sea. The honest concern, the faithfulness in those eyes shredded the mask I’d been wearing throughout our idle conversation. I shook my head to escape the ponderous weight of her gaze and to smack down the tears that threatened to spill out of my eyes. “You must despise me, Seven.”

She stared at me again, and I didn’t like it. It was as if she was peering into a cloudy fish bowl, checking to see if something was still alive. “Captain, in you I have always found integrity, untouched and unshaken no matter how circumstances altered. In you I know the meaning of duty and strength; you have always mastered yourself before you sought to master others. You know your limitations but have always refused to accept them as insurmountable…”

My face unraveled from all the strain I felt. Seven was always like this. She may not have always obeyed me, but she listened. She analyzed everything and passed judgment, sometimes harshly, but never maliciously. I thrust my hands into my eyes, stemming the flow of tears that I knew would come at any moment.

Wondrously, she gathered me into her arms. Her left hand held me close while her right bestowed soothing caresses on my brow. I felt her lips on my forehead, my eyelids, drawing still on my cheek.

“The crew may be angry with you, but they are not disappointed in you.” She whispered. “We could never be.”

Her words triggered the pain I had tried so hard to hold down. It rushed out at me like a big spring bursting. There was a sharp pain at my temples and a thickness in my mouth. Something snapped loose around my soul. It seemed as if I was trying to get out from inside myself while Seven kept me hugged and weighted and steady and thought – God knows what, her Captain’s face snagging in breath like a drowning man.

“Captain…” Seven whispered tenderly against my cheek, “It is the strength of your vision, the faith in your dream, which brings order to chaos. We put our trust in you, and you help us to stand up in the storm. Perhaps not perfectly, but always consistently.”

And quite suddenly her lips gently touched the corner of my mouth. The kiss was so shy and so brief, I could have imagined it. Her arms tightened around me as I wept, unable to stop no matter how much I wanted to. I was so tired of fighting, so weary of the battle that had raged within me. She held me close; her lips soothed my eyelids and traced the tracks of my tears.

In that moment I finally grasped what love was about. Reaching for somebody, believing the best in them, believing that their best will prevail.

She sang to me then, that faint song that felt more sensual than an angel’s, and also more real. I tried to catch the melody, fixed the little that remained of my consciousness on it, listened desperately. Sleep trickled down around me, and the tune dissolved away into my dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I awoke looking into her unclouded eyes, the luminous dawn turning her hair into fine skeins of gold. I was stretched out on the floorboards of the windward deck, with my head on her thigh. Guiltily I remembered that I had cried myself to sleep and denied her… denied us… our dinner.

“Is your leg dead?” I asked, getting up immediately.

Seven arched her implant. “The weight of your head is not sufficient enough to cause gangrene, Captain.”

I smiled wanly, not quite knowing what the hell I should say. I looked around and suddenly noticed that we weren’t moving.

“I informed Commander Chakotay that we would be delayed,” Seven explained. “I attempted to guide our vessel back to the harbor, but we have been becalmed for three hours, twenty minutes, and forty-two seconds. Fortunately, the wind seems to be picking up.”

“What did you do?” I asked, grinning at the image of Seven trying to take the sloop in.

“From your actions last night, I observed that the vessel does not sail into the wind, but at an acute angle of approximately 43 to 45 degrees. I used the roof of the large red cottage as a landmark, formulated a heading and held my course. I assumed that I would sail at precisely the proper angle for maximum efficiency. Instead the vessel came to a complete stop.” Seven said, disgusted with her failure. “This is primitive. It would be more efficient to install propulsion and helm control.”

I had started to smile during her recitation but then I realized I was laughing, really laughing. How long had it been since I had let out my breath this way? I caught Seven’s glare and what looked to be the beginning of a pout and promptly dissolved into another fit of laughter. After I had brushed away the tears in my eyes, I attempted to mollify her.

“Seven, I think I’ll promote you from passenger to First Mate.” I declared, still chuckling. “Would you like me to teach you to sail?”

Her lips twitched in her Borg “smile” but she insisted that I eat breakfast first. I gave her a mock salute and retrieved the chicken I had packed. When I returned with two plates and utensils, I found a bowl of the most efficient and appetizing salad I had ever seen in my life. “Seven, did you make this?”

“No, Captain. The elves made it while you slept.” She deadpanned as she placed the canister she had used to keep the salad in back into her bag.

I laughed again. “Now you’re just provoking me!”

“I enjoy the sound of your laughter.” Seven admitted. “Most of the time.”

I smiled and handed her a plate and a fork. “Are you going to try and keep me laughing throughout breakfast? Because without anything to drink, you might make me choke.”

“But we do have something to drink, Captain. I observed a bottle of water among your provisions.”

I nearly did choke. “Uh… that’s not water, Seven.”

“Synthanol?”

“Yes. Vodka.”

Seven pressed her lips together. “I have a thermos of Nutritional Supplement 12-gamma, it will be sufficient for both of us to consume it if I also eat the chicken.”

“Be my guest…” I said, trying not to wish for water… or a steaming mug of coffee.

She bent down to retrieve the thermos from her bag, and her sketchpad fell out onto the deck, opening at a page written in Borg. Seven snatched it away immediately, but I had seen enough characters to recognize my name. It was the only Borg that I knew, since those were the letters Harry had taught me. I felt a voyeuristic thrill, knowing that I had glimpsed at Seven’s diary. I also felt a rush of elation at the thought that my name was in it.

After we had eaten breakfast, Seven sat beside me as I taught her how to hold the tiller, and explained that in this case, the shortest distance between two points was a zig-zag. I let her find the wind, and watched as her eyes widened at the power she felt under her hand as she eased the tiller to port, away from her destination, but tacking towards it nevertheless.

I looked down at my small hand covering her elegant, Borg-meshed fingers, keeping their pressure on the tiller light. For the first time I looked at Seven and did not feel the exploding heat of desire that had always rushed through my body. For the first time it was more of a murmuring warmth, suffusing my chest and my limbs.

I braced myself for the computer’s incessant chirping that would call me out of this dream and into the alpha shift, or for the sound of red-alert klaxons… but the intrusive sounds never came. I was still beside her, my hand cradling hers.

“Thank you for a lovely evening.” Seven broke in abruptly but sincerely.

I felt overwhelmed, grateful, but too embarrassed to do anything but breathe. “I should thank you, Seven.”

Her face softened and she removed her hand from beneath mine, wrapping it around my waist and settling gently on my abdomen as I took hold of the tiller. “You told me once that since you were my Captain, you could not always be my friend.”

I nodded, my throat was suddenly dry and my eyes were magnetized to hers.

Seven smiled and whispered. “I do not have that limitation.”