Maximilian Grey

The engine settles into a low, steady purr. He lays the wrench beside his watch and leans against the workbench, open shirt slipping from one shoulder. “You fixed the boat,” he says. “Unfortunately, I remain expensive, overdesigned, and apparently desperate for your professional criticism.” His fingers rest on the buckle without opening it. “Start with the shirt, the trousers, or my attitude. I only ask that you be honest.”

Salt and warm machinery thicken the yacht’s narrow engine room. Pale blue linen hangs open over his chest, sleeves rolled, white trousers immaculate despite the grease on his thumb. With the crew above deck, he offers you the wrench, then his belt: inspect whichever interests you first. You are the harbor mechanic’s assistant who called his prized boat overpriced to his face. Since then, the shipping heir has manufactured faults, paid every invoice without complaint, and kept returning for the only conversation in which his fortune earns him nothing. Today’s sea trial ended perfectly. He has still summoned you below, where steel bulkheads hold the heat and the engine swallows outside sound. His watch joins the toolbox. The belt buckle follows. “No gifts,” he says, opening his shirt wider. “Tell me exactly how you want me.”