50
Kate trails her fingers up his side; his hand comes up between them to capture hers, lacing together.
Gorgeous. The ever-present sound of water lapping, lifting, breaking, and the warm night, and Castle next to her.
She watches the stars move in the black overhead, the sail taut and grey from the mast. The wooden boat under her back bobs in the water as they lie side by side in the prow. The boat is so small that it dips steeply in the troughs, thrusts up in the swells.
She clutches his hand tighter when the sailboat pitches deeply to starboard; he laughs softly in the darkness.
The sail snaps and the boat tugs to one side; the two guys working the sail, the outboard motor are dark shadows at the stern.
"Oh, hey, here it is," Castle murmurs, and he rolls over onto his stomach beside her, nudges her in the temple with his knuckle.
She rolls over as well, looking out across the softly slapping, dark water, and she sees the brilliant, textured-white of the moon rising over the ocean.
"Oh, wow. Oh, Castle."
Kate has her cheek resting on her arms; she watches the moon rise over Ambergris Cay. She's beautiful in the grey light, her lashes so dark and her eyes so luminous.
There's so much history between them, so many moments, so many problems - other relationships, jealousies, criminals, cases, tragedies. But so much beauty. All of it rests right here, but all he can see is the beauty. He chooses to see the beauty.
Castle leans over and presses his mouth to her cheekbone, the high arch of it, feels her lashes flutter against his skin as her hand come up to cradle the side of his face, hold him there.
You're it for me.
He will work his whole life to be the man worthy of being her last.
The stars are quiet in the deep layers of the night. Freckles of light in the darkness, glints of space.
The water pushes them up and down like their boat is a cradle, and they lie on their backs again, the warmth of their bodies side by side.
Her fingers play, soft strokes against his digits, the back of his hand, her thumb smoothing the bones of his wrist. His fingers lift or curl in response, stroke back, tangle with hers, an unconscious dance between them. Her elbow rests in the crook of his, the soft, tender, inside skin of their forearms brushing, laying across one another.
They watch the swirl of stars as the boat moves, as the earth rotates, as the night wears on. The moon lifts above them and never has it looked so far away, so alien, and yet so close, so infinitely close she could scratch it with her thumb and pull up a piece.
Kate breathes out into wide open, the vast stretching beyond her, and with their hands twining and untwining, touching and resting in each other's, she realizes she has been given this.
This.
The world, and the sky. The moon. The blue ocean darkness with the stars budded tight and hard, waiting for promises.
"Kate," he whispers into this.
She waits, watching the fixed point of the brightest star spin her, turn her, over and over. His thumb circles the base of hers, around and around, and she waits for him to find the words.
He never does. He just says her name gratefully into the deep blue night, with the ocean a steady counterpoint to his breathing, to the earth, to the boat in the waves.
"Kate."
She knows then that he is still speechless because of her, because of this, the two of them as vast and faceted and filled with promise as the night sky is with stars.
