a thousand butterflies / wlw

third person

sunday, july 4th —
The ship rocked gently beneath the soft hum of midnight air, the kind of motion that blurred the line between dream and wakefulness. Most of the deck had gone quiet, the laughter, the music, the chatter all faded into the background hum of the ocean. Only the bar still glowed faintly, a patch of amber light tucked against the vast dark sea.

Olive sat at the far end of it, perched on a high stool, a half-empty glass of soda beside her and a small pile of candy wrappers in front of her like evidence of a slow sugar-fueled rebellion. The bartender had long since given up trying to offer her something more "age-appropriate" than gummy bears, and now just wiped glasses in silence, casting her the occasional amused glance.

Her legs swung idly beneath the stool as she peeled open another candy, popping it into her mouth with a sigh that carried far more drama than the moment warranted. The air smelled faintly of salt and something sweet, maybe the last traces of someone's abandoned cocktail.

She checked her watch, frowned, and muttered to herself, "They said they'd be here ten minutes ago."

The clock above the bar read 02:03 a.m. Somewhere below deck, she could hear faint music—the after-party crowd still going strong. But up here, it was just her, the bartender, and the sea stretching endlessly in every direction.

She didn't mind the quiet, not really. It gave her time to think, though, truthfully, she was running out of candy, and that was starting to feel like a bigger crisis than the loneliness.

Then, faint footsteps echoed from the hallway leading toward the bar, the sound of heels clicking lightly against tile. Olive perked up instantly, her eyes darting toward the entrance.

Grayson appeared first, shoulders slouched and eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. His button-up was untucked, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hair looked like he'd run a frustrated hand through it one too many times. He moved with the slow, deliberate gait of someone running entirely on willpower and caffeine fumes.

Amara followed close behind, her energy the polar opposite. Her hair was pulled loosely into a bun as she tied the last twist in place, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She grinned at something Grayson muttered under his breath, then promptly punched him in the arm.

"Stop doing that," he groaned, swatting at her without much conviction.

"I will," Amara said sweetly, already winding up for another hit.

"You're a menace," he muttered.

"I've been called worse," she replied, landing another playful jab against his shoulder.

Grayson shot her a flat look that only made her grin wider. "Do you ever get tired?"

"Of bothering you? Never," she said cheerfully.

Olive couldn't help but snort, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. Both adults turned their heads toward her. Grayson with mild surprise, Amara with a triumphant smile.

"Well, look who's still awake," Grayson said, rubbing his arm. "Should've known the candy supply would keep you hostage."

Olive shrugged, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You said ten minutes. It's been thirty."

Amara laughed. "You sound just like Evelyn."

The younger girl shrugged, unbothered, and popped another candy into her mouth. "Like mother, like daughter," she said with a sly grin, words muffled by sugar.

Amara chuckled, tossing Grayson a look that said she's not wrong. Grayson just sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "God help us all," he muttered.