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“At least 36 hours for temporary repairs,” the chief engineer interjects. “We’ll need a proper shipyard for permanent solutions.”
“That’s our last day at sea,” Ethan notes. “Can we maintain operations with the remaining tanks?”
“Yes, sir, but we’ll need to implement water conservation measures.”
Ethan nods. “Draft an announcement for passengers explaining the situation and necessary conservation steps. Chen, I want hourly monitoring of the containment area and confirmation that no external discharge has occurred.”
“Already underway, sir.”
“And prepare comprehensive documentation for Dr. Bennett’s assessment, and our insurance.” he adds, surprising me. “Complete transparency.”
Chen nods and returns to work, leaving Ethan and me alone in the corridor.
“You didn’t have to include that last part,” I say quietly.
“Yes, I did.” His eyes meet mine. “Your records of what we do on this ship need to reflect what happened, not what might have happened.”
“It’s still an environmental issue. Outdated equipment, delayed maintenance?—”
“Which will be in my report to the board,” he interrupts. “Along with an accelerated timeline for the system upgrades and waste management overhaul.”
I stare at him, looking for any sign of corporate doublespeak or empty promises. I find none, just sincerity and—more disturbingly for my professional detachment—evidence that he has genuine concern for the environmental impact of his company’s operations.
“You’re serious about this,” I observe.
“Did you think I wasn’t?” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Harper, I meant what I said last night. The environment and profit aren’t mutually exclusive concerns.”
The intensity in his blue eyes makes my stomach flip in a very unprofessional way. Standing here in a maintenance corridor, discussing waste management systems while sleep deprived, I shouldn’t be thinking about how his lips felt against my skin just hours ago.
“I need coffee before I can process any more corporate environmentalism,” I say, taking a deliberate step back. “Especially at 5 in the morning.”
His lips quirk in a small smile. “Breakfast in my suite? The chef can deliver something while we review the preliminary reports.”
“That would be...” Dangerous. Intimate. Exactly what I want. “... practical.”
“Practical,” he repeats, amusement warming his voice. “How very thoughtful of you, Dr. Bennett.”
“Efficiency is essential in crisis response,” I reply, though we both know my motivation isn’t professional.
Twenty minutes later, I’m showered and changed in my cabin, trying to gather my composure before rejoining Ethan. This wasn’t how I expected my assignment to unfold—discovering a legitimate environmental issue, watching Ethan handle it with transparency and competence, then returning to his suite for “breakfast.”
My phone buzzes with a text from him:
Coffee’s getting cold, Bennett. Avocado toast awaits.
I smile and head next door.
Ethan answers on the first knock, looking attractive in fresh clothes, his hair still damp from a shower. The suite behind him has been transformed—breakfast laid out on the dining table, reports stacked beside two laptops, the bed where we’d spent the night remade by housekeeping.
“Efficient,” I comment, accepting the coffee he offers.
“I try.” He gestures toward the food. “Eat first, then work?”
We settle at the table. This feels dangerously normal—sharing breakfast, discussing our day, existing in the same space without fighting or pretending.
“About last night,” I begin, unsure where I’m going with this but feeling the need to talk about our situation-ship.
“Which part?” Ethan asks, spreading avocado on toast. “The stargazing, the business revelations, or the part where you researched what makes me lose control?”