It's nights like this, when the moon is full and heavy, laying a shimmering path of gold across the dark water of the harbour, that he misses the Jolly the most. Nights like this, when the bells have just chimed three and it feels as though the whole town is deep in slumber, that he finds himself searching the horizon.
He slips silently from their bed, pulling on loose trousers with nary a rustle of cloth as he studies the way the moonlight kisses her hair, turning the golden strands into something other worldly. These are also the nights when his chest fairly aches with the joyous disbelief at his place in her life, but it's a pain he's all too willing to bear.
He walks out onto the small balcony that leads off their living quarters, inhaling deeply, letting the smell of cold and moonlight and the sea wash over him. The night air washes over his too-warm skin, chasing away the fog from his thoughts. He braces his hand on the railing, his feet planted wide (a poor imitation of a captain at lookout, he fears) and cannot deny that these are the nights when the ground feels too steady beneath his feet.
The horizon is dark and empty, but the ghosts of the past are restless tonight, and he bids them a pleasant evening in turn. There are days when he can no longer remember his brother's smile or Milah's laugh, but nights like this, the dead come to him with painful clarity, as if to remind him of how much things have changed.
How much he has changed.
He closes his eyes, his fingers tightening around the wooden rail. The Jolly is gone. It was a high price to pay, and yet he would pay it over again tenfold. In any realm or any reality, he would do the same.
All this he knows, and yet it doesn't stop him missing her.
The soft pad of bare feet behind him warns that he's no longer alone. "Hey." Emma's arms wind around his waist, her silk-clad breasts pressed against his back, her chin nudging his shoulder. "You okay?"
He lifts his hand to cover hers where they press entwined against his belly, rubbing his fingers over hers. "All's well, Swan."
She kisses his shoulder, and he feels the familiar siren song of her lips of his skin, like a fish hook jerking through his blood. "I woke up and you were gone."
There's an uncertainty in her voice that stings his heart. He knows she worries that there will come a day when he regrets his choice, that he will decide she was not worth the sacrifice, and he can only pray for the words to make her believe that such a day will never come. He turns, coaxing her into his arms, bringing her to stand at his side. His arm curled around her waist, he presses a kiss to her temple, inhaling the scent of her sleep-warmed skin. "Just taking in the night air."
She tilts her head as she studies him. "Liar," she murmurs without rancor, then leans into him, her eyes wide as she takes in the rising moon. "The moon looks huge tonight."
"A sailor's moon." He looks at her, at those beguiling eyes as green as any sea, their clear beauty rivaling the most glittering of gems in any of the realms. The moonlight has set them aglow, and the wooden floor beneath his feet seems to pitch and fall, keeping time with the thrum of his heartbeat. Open book, he thinks as she turns to him, perhaps drawn by the fierceness of his gaze, her face soft with understanding.
They don't return to bed, instead lying entwined beneath the moon, a hastily procured quilt softening the wooden floor beneath his back. (Her lad is with his grandparents tonight, and there is no one awake in the town to shame them.) Her mouth finds his, languid and sweet, her body bare and warm against his. Her skin is smooth, as sleek as any selkie of legend, the slippery heat of her like treasure in his hands before the salty tang of her quim is heady on his tongue as she falls, falls, falls.
Still heavy-eyed with pleasure, she rises above him, her knees tight on his hips, taking him deep into the silken clasp of her body again and again, riding him past the point of coherence, her mouth fierce as she swallows his hoarse shout of completion.
Afterwards, he rolls the quilt over their cooling bodies, then draws her close. He tastes salt on her eyelids as he kisses them shut, the brine of her tears seeping into his bones. Cupping her face in his hand, he brushes his thumb over her damp cheek. "I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke."
"Don't be sorry." Her smile is tremulous, and in her eyes he sees the echo of the lost girl who still cannot quite believe she is someone's first choice. "I know you miss her."
"Aye, that I do, like an ache in my bones." Threading his fingers through the glorious tangle of her hair, he touches his mouth to hers, letting the kiss grow heavy and deep and searching, letting her feel the truth of his heart before offering her the simple truth of his words. "But I missed you more, Swan."
When she kisses him, her smile tastes like home.
It's nights like this, he thinks much later, when the moon is full and heavy, laying a shimmering path of gold across the dark water of the harbour, that he misses the Jolly the most. And it's nights like this, as Emma murmurs softly in her sleep, her soft skin warm against his, the rise and fall of her breast as true a rhythm as the tide, that he knows that the little mermaid had been right all along. That true love, even the possibility of it, had indeed been more important, and that some things are worth so much more than a few planks of wood and a sail.