Jo pushed the cabin door open with her hip, the bowl warm in both hands, and stopped.
Amelia was on her feet.
Barefoot on the worn planks, one hand pressed to the bandage at her side, the other braced against the cot frame. Her knuckles were white. A fine tremor ran through her arm, up into the shoulder, visible even in the dim light through the single warped window. The wound had to be screaming at her. Three days since steel had punched through muscle and gone deep enough to nearly take her.
She was standing.
"You said you'd answer me when I could stand." Amelia's voice came rough, scraped from somewhere deep. "I'm standing."
The bowl trembled in Jo's hands. Broth sloshed warm against her fingers, splashing the rim. She barely felt it.
"You should be in bed," Jo said. It came out thin. Wrong. She tried again. "Amelia, you'll tear the stitches. The wound—"
"Will heal." Amelia's jaw tightened. Sweat beaded at her temple, dark against the skin. Her hazel eyes never left Jo's face. "Three days I've been lying in that cot, listening to the ship move without me. Three days with nothing but the taste of broth and the sound of your voice at the door."
"I came back every time."
"I know." Amelia's hand shifted on the cot frame, fingers curling into the wood. "You came back every time. You sat beside me. You held my hand while I slept. You brought me water and broth and—" She stopped. Swallowed. "And you said you'd answer me. When I could stand."
Jo set the bowl down on the crate beside the door. Her hands were shaking. She couldn't make them stop.
"I'm standing," Amelia said again, quieter this time. "So answer me, Jo. Please."
The please cracked something open in Jo's chest.
"I already gave you my answer," Jo said. "In the passage, before I left. I said I was exactly where I wanted to be."
"That's not the same." Amelia's voice dropped. "That's not—you know what I'm asking."
Jo did.
She crossed the cabin in four steps. Close enough to see the tremor in Amelia's arms, the sweat on her brow, the way her lips were pressed thin against the pain of standing. Close enough that if Jo reached out, she could touch her.
She reached out.
Her palm settled against Amelia's cheek, fingers curling along the line of her jaw. The skin was hot. Fever-flushed. Amelia's breath caught, sharp and audible in the stillness of the cabin.
"Yes," Jo said. "I am yours. I told you that when you were bleeding in my arms, and I meant it. I told you that in the passage, and I meant it. I've meant it since you taught me to steer, since you touched my face on the deck, since I let go of that rope ladder and you caught me."
Amelia's eyelids fluttered. Her hand came up from the cot frame, trembling, and covered Jo's where it lay against her cheek. Her fingers were cold. The tremor ran through them, through the whole arm, through the whole body holding itself upright by will alone.
"Say it again," Amelia whispered.
"I am yours."
Amelia kissed her.
It was not gentle. It was not careful. It was the kiss of a woman who had been holding herself back for a month and three days, who had let steel find her ribs rather than let Jo go, who had dreamed of Jo on the stern pointing at a horizon and woken with the taste of salt and want in her throat.
Jo's back hit the wall of the cabin. She didn't remember moving. Amelia's body pressed against hers—too thin, too wounded, too warm—and Jo's hands found her waist, her shoulders, the short-cropped black hair at the nape of her neck. Amelia tasted like fever and salt and something raw that Jo had no name for.
Amelia broke the kiss first, gasping, forehead pressed to Jo's, breath ragged in the space between them.
"I've wanted to do that since the night watch," Amelia said. Her voice was wrecked. "Since I touched your face and felt you shiver under my hand. Since you told me about drowning yourself in the harbor and I wanted to find every man who ever made you feel like that and put my sword through them."
Jo's hands were still in Amelia's hair. The short strands were coarse with salt, soft at the roots where the sweat hadn't reached. She pulled Amelia closer, felt the sharp intake of breath when their bodies pressed together, felt the tremor that was pain and the one that wasn't.
"You need to sit down," Jo said. "Or lie down. Or something that isn't—" She gestured at Amelia standing on a wounded body, propped against the wall now, holding herself up by will and the arm braced beside Jo's head.
"I've been lying down for three days."
"Amelia."
"Jo."
They stared at each other. Amelia's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, the hazel nearly swallowed. The fever flush on her cheeks was deeper now, spreading down her neck. Her hand was still pressed to the bandage at her side. When Jo looked down, she saw a thin line of red seeping through the linen, just at the edge of the wrap.
"You're bleeding."
Amelia looked down. Looked back up. "It's fine."
"You're bleeding because you stood up to prove a point that I already answered before you got out of that cot."
The corner of Amelia's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost. "You answered. I needed to hear it while I was on my feet."
"I know." Jo took her hand from Amelia's hair, laced their fingers together, and tugged gently toward the cot. "Now get back in bed before I carry you there."
"You couldn't lift me."
"I could try." Jo pulled again. "And we'd both end up on the floor, and then I'd have to explain to Mara why the captain has a new bruise on top of the stab wound."
Amelia let herself be led. She moved slowly, favoring her right side, her bare feet finding the planks with the careful precision of someone who knew every uneven spot. When she reached the cot, she sat down hard, the breath leaving her in a rush.
The bandage had a dark patch now. Not large. But there.
Jo knelt in front of her, reaching for the ties at Amelia's waist. "Let me see."
"It's barely—"
"Let me see, Amelia."
Amelia's hands fell away. Her head dropped back against the cot frame, eyes closing, as Jo worked the knot loose and peeled back the layers of linen.
The wound was angry. Red and swollen around the edges, the stitches dark against the skin. A few had pulled loose, right at the top of the gash, where the tension would have been highest when Amelia stood. Blood welled up, slow and dark, and Jo pressed a clean fold of bandage against it.
Amelia hissed through her teeth.
"Sorry." Jo held pressure, her other hand finding Amelia's knee. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Amelia's voice was thin again. The adrenaline was leaving her, the pain flooding in to fill the space. "You're the one who's been changing these bandages for three days. You've earned the right to press hard."
Jo kept her hand on the wound, feeling the warmth of Amelia's body through the cloth, the unsteady rise and fall of her breathing.
"You called me yours," Jo said quietly. "When I was in the passage. After you woke up from the fever. You said mine."
Amelia's eyes stayed closed. "I remember."
"Do you mean it?"
The silence stretched. The ship creaked around them. Water lapped against the hull. Somewhere above, footsteps crossed the deck, and a voice called out in Spanish, laughing.
Amelia opened her eyes. The hazel was tired, fever-bright, but steady. "I've never meant anything more."
Jo's chest ached. The same ache that had been building since the night watch, since the dark deck and the cannon fire and Amelia's hand on her jaw. It settled now, deep and warm, finding its home.
"Then I'm yours," Jo said again. "And you're mine."
Amelia's hand found her wrist. Fingers curling around the bone, the same grip that had left a bruise three days ago, softer now but no less certain. "Yours," she repeated, like she was tasting the word. "No one's ever been mine before. Not like that."
"I know."
The bandage was holding. The bleeding had slowed. Jo tied a fresh wrap over it, her fingers learning the shape of Amelia's ribs, the dip of her waist, the curve of muscle under skin. She worked slowly, carefully, and Amelia let her, silent and still except for the breath that caught when Jo's fingers brushed a sensitive spot.
When she was done, Jo sat back on her heels. They were eye-level now, the cot low enough that Amelia's face was close, close enough to kiss again.
Amelia leaned forward and kissed her, softer this time. A question, answered before it was asked. Jo leaned into it, into the warmth of Amelia's mouth, the roughness of her lips cracked from wind and salt, the scent of her—salt and sweat and the sharp clean smell of the sea.
"What happens now?" Jo asked, when they broke apart.
"Now." Amelia's thumb traced the inside of Jo's wrist, pressing lightly over the pulse. "Now you stay. You sleep in my cot, in my cabin, in my life. You let me teach you to swim. You let me show you what it means to be free."
"And the crew?"
Something flickered in Amelia's eyes. A shadow. "The crew will know. They already suspect. Mara's been watching us since the galley, and Swee hasn't stopped asking questions since you joined us on Tortuga."
"Will they accept it?"
"They'll accept you," Amelia said. "You faced the British for them. You held me while I bled. You're crew. And the captain's—" She paused. "The captain's woman."
The word landed in Jo's chest like a stone in still water. Ripples spreading outward.
"Your woman," Jo echoed.
Amelia's smile broke slow, like dawn over the sea. "My woman."
The cabin felt different now. Smaller. Brighter. The same warped window, the same rough blanket, the same scuffed planks—but charged with something that hadn't been there an hour ago. Amelia. Mine.
"There's something else," Amelia said. Her voice shifted, the lightness draining. "The British. Your father. Harding will have reached Port Royal by now. He'll have sent word to your father—"
"My father can burn."
Amelia's grip tightened on her wrist. "He's the Governor of Jamaica. He has the resources of the crown behind him. He will not stop looking for you."
"Then we run." Jo said it simply. "We run, and we hide, and we find a place where he can't reach us. You said you'd take me somewhere the water's clear a hundred feet down. Take me there."
"And then?"
"And then we find somewhere else. And somewhere after that. I didn't stow away on your ship to reach a destination, Amelia. I stowed away to escape a cage." She shifted closer, her knees pressing against Amelia's bare feet. "You are not the cage. You are the freedom."
Amelia's breath caught. Her hand came up, cuping Jo's jaw, her thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "You don't know what you're asking. A pirate's life is short, hard, and bloody. You'll see things that—"
"I've already seen a man put a sword through your side." Jo's voice was flat. Flat and hard and final. "I've seen you bleed. I've seen you almost die. And I'm still here."
Amelia was silent, her thumb still moving slowly along Jo's cheekbone, back and forth, a rhythm as steady as the sea.
"I'm not afraid of your life," Jo said. "I'm afraid of a life without it."
Amelia kissed her again. Harder this time. Desperate. A hand in Jo's hair, fisting in the blonde strands, pulling her closer until Jo's knees pressed into the edge of the cot and her hands found Amelia's shoulders and the angle was wrong and she didn't care.
"I dreamed of you," Amelia said against her mouth. The words came broken. "When the fever was at its worst. I dreamed of you standing on the stern, pointing at the horizon, smiling the smile you don't give anyone else. And I—" Her voice cracked. "I thought I was dying. And all I could think was that I never told you. Never kissed you. Never—"
"I'm here." Jo pulled back, enough to look at her. "I'm here, Amelia. I'm not going anywhere."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
Amelia's hand was shaking again, but her eyes were clear. "If the British come—"
"I stay."
"If Harding finds us—"
"I stay."
Amelia's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in her cheek. "If they put a noose around my neck and tell you that you can walk free if you renounce me—"
"I stay," Jo said, and her voice was iron. "I burn the noose. I find another way. I follow you into the sea if I have to. I stay."
Amelia stared at her. The tremor in her hands spread to her shoulders, ran through her whole body, and Jo realized she was crying. Silent tears tracking through the salt-dust on her cheeks, catching the light from the window.
"Don't," Jo whispered, her own throat closing. "Don't cry, Amelia. I meant it. Every word."
"No one's ever—" Amelia's voice broke. She stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "No one has ever chosen me. Not like this. Not when it cost them something."
"It doesn't cost me anything to love you."
The word hung in the air between them.
Love.
Jo felt it settle into her bones. Felt it find its place, the word that had been building since the dark deck, since the first time Amelia had touched her face, since she'd let go of the rope ladder and been caught.
"I love you," she said, because saying it once had broken the dam and the words were rising now, unstoppable. "I love you, Amelia Thorne. I love your scarred hands and your short hair and the way you laugh with your whole body. I love how you speak Spanish with the crew, how you carried me through the water, how you stood up with a wound in your side just to prove you could hear my answer. I love you."
Amelia kissed her wet and messy, taste of salt and copper and something that might have been blood from the split in her lip. Jo held her through it, hands in her damp hair, pulling her close, feeling the racking shudder of a woman who had been alone for the whole of her life and didn't know how to hold what she'd finally been given.
"I love you," Amelia said back, the words muffled against Jo's mouth. "God help me, Jo. I love you."
They stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath, until the ship's bell rang and footsteps passed the door and the world outside started moving again.
Amelia pulled back first. Her eyes were red. Her face was blotched. She was still the most beautiful thing Jo had ever seen.
"The crew," Amelia said. "They'll have to know. Today."
Jo nodded. "Then we tell them."
"Together."
Amelia's hand found hers, lacing their fingers. The grip was weaker than it had been three days ago. Wounded. Healing. But it held.
"One more thing," Amelia said. "Before we go up there."
"What?"
"When the crew sees you—when they see us—things change. You won't just be a passenger, or a stowaway, or even crew. You'll be the captain's woman. And that means—"
"It means I'm yours," Jo said. "And you're mine. And anyone who has a problem with it can answer to me."
Amelia laughed, rough and surprised. "You weigh a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet and you've never held a sword."
"I learn fast." Jo squeezed her hand. "Now help me stand. I have a crew to meet."
Amelia rose, slow and careful, one hand pressed to her bandages, the other braced on the cot frame. When she straightened, she was steady. Pale and sweating and steady.
Jo moved to her side, slipped an arm around her waist. Amelia leaned into her, just slightly, the bare weight of her body a promise in itself.
"The water," Amelia said, as they reached the door. "The water a hundred feet deep. I meant it. When I'm healed enough to swim, I'm taking you."
Jo looked up at her. The afternoon light caught Amelia's face through the window, lit the freckles across her nose, caught the dark of her eyes. She was beautiful. Pale and wounded and scarred and beautiful.
"I'll be waiting," Jo said.
Amelia's arm tightened around her shoulders. And together, they pushed the door open and stepped out into the light.