Chapter 57: Madeline
The CTD hums as we lower it inch by inch, the water lapping quietly against the hull. The sky’s gone a bit hazy, soft streaks of sunlight cutting through the clouds like ribbons.
“So,” Liam says, his hands steady on the line beside mine, “what exactly does this thing do again? Looks like a robot submarine to me.”
I smile. “Kind of. It measures conductivity, temperature, and depth—that’s what CTD stands for. Conductivity tells us how salty the water is, temperature tells us about the water mass, and depth helps us track where everything’s happening. Together, they tell us a lot about the health of the environment, especially when you compare data over time.”
He whistles low, clearly impressed. “So basically, this thing helps you figure out what the ocean’s feeling.”
I laugh softly. “That’s one way to put it.”
When I glance up, his expression isn’t teasing—it’s open, curious, a little awestruck. Like he’s seeing something new. I’m used to people pretending to understand, nodding politely until they can change the subject. But not him. Liam looks like he’s actually listening.
Before I can say anything else, I hear heavy steps behind us. The air seems to shift as Jake and Reid come down from the wheelhouse, voices low but clear over the hum of the sea.
Jake’s sleeves are rolled up, his forearms streaked with sun and salt; Reid’s eyes sweep the deck like he’s scanning for danger. It hits me, then—probably for the first time—that I’m the only woman on board.
I’ve always known that the field was male-dominated. It’s impossible not to. But standing here, surrounded by all of them—voices, presence, confidence—it feels real. Tangible.
Still, I don’t feel unsafe. Not with these guys. Not even with Reid and that impossible tension that seems to follow him everywhere.
Just… aware.
I shift my focus back to the CTD, trying to adjust one of the clamps, but the latch sticks. Before I can force it, Finn’s beside me, leaning in close, his grin easy. “Here, Quinn, let me,” he says, his hand brushing mine as he snaps the latch into place.
“Show-off,” I mutter, smiling despite myself.
He winks. “Just efficient.”
Reid’s voice cuts through the calm. “Liam. Finn.”
Both boys straighten instantly.
“You can leave it from here,” Reid says, tone firm but even. “We’ll handle the rest.”
Liam hesitates for half a second, glancing my way, then nods. “Sure thing, boss.”
Finn grins at me as he steps back. “Try not to drop that thing, Doc.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the help, guys.”
Liam flashes me that easy, warm smile again—the kind that feels like sunlight—and the two of them disappear up the steps, leaving me with the twins.
Jake steps closer, his shadow falling over me as I double-check the readout on the screen. The soft creak of the winch and the rhythmic splash of the CTD cable are the only sounds between us.
“You’ve done this before?” he asks, voice low—more curiosity than command.
“Yeah,” I say, glancing up at him. “A few times. In lakes mostly. We practiced a lot in school.” I pause, tightening the latch before adding with a small grin, “But never on the ocean. It’s… different. Kind of fun, actually.”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer, just watches me, that calm intensity of his impossible to read. Then—barely—a smile pulls at his mouth. Small, restrained, but enough to knock something loose in my chest.
I forget what I was doing.
Because God, if I thought the twins were beautiful when they were brooding, Jake smiling is something else entirely. It’s soft and dangerous at the same time—like sunlight cutting through fog. It changes his whole face, makes the hard lines of it warmer, almost human.
I stare a little too long, and he catches it, amusement flickering behind his eyes.
“Fun, huh?” he says, one brow arching, his tone teasing but quiet.
I clear my throat, pretending to focus back on the CTD. “Yeah. You know. Science.”
“Right.” He’s still watching me, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” I admit, meeting his gaze for half a second before looking away again. “But it’s worth it.”
He hums, a soft sound of agreement that seems to sink right into me. Then he nods toward the water, all business again—but the warmth of that tiny smile lingers, like sunlight that won’t quite fade.
Reid steps up on the other side of me, close enough that the cold slowly slips away, replaced by the heat radiating off him. His voice is rough, controlled, the kind that vibrates more than it sounds.
“When you’re ready to lift it up,” he says, eyes fixed on the equipment instead of me, “let us know. We’ll help with the line.”
I nod quickly, grateful for something practical to focus on. “Okay. Just a few more readings.”
He moves to check one of the ropes, Jake standing opposite him, the two of them a mirror of quiet, effortless power. My hands suddenly feel too small, my heartbeat too loud.
Get it together, Madeline.
They’re your bosses. Your very intense, very tall, very unfairly attractive bosses. Reid can barely look at you without frowning, and Jake—Jake probably just tolerates you because you’re new and trying hard not to screw anything up.
Still, my pulse keeps tripping over itself every time one of them steps closer.
I need to find a way to stop feeling like this. To stop noticing the way Reid’s forearms flex when he pulls the line, or how Jake’s voice softens when he asks for data updates. It’s stupid. Unprofessional.
Maybe it’s just nerves. Or proximity. Yeah, that’s it—my body’s reacting because they’re new, and intense, and this whole situation is new. With time, it’ll fade.
At least, I hope it will.
Because if it doesn’t, I’m doomed to spend the rest of this internship forgetting how to breathe every time they walk by.