Over the better part of the next hour, Mirages continued to widen that gap between themselves and their closest chasers. They rounded the mark ten seconds ahead and pulled ahead to fifteen on their way south to Canlan.

Lujang whistled. “That’s a hell of a run right there. They might even make it in under your time.”

“You’re getting this on tape, right?” Anqien asked, one palm on the glass door.

“You know us,” answered Iki. “We’ll go through it with you when the dust settles around the press conferences and all that.”

Press. Jinai sighed. It was part of the grind—particularly here in Helfi, where sailing held the hearts of millions. “Yeah, cool.”

“Oh yes!” At her terminal, Lujang opened her document explorer and swiped an image open. It was a digital poster bearing the Akido Sailing Federation icon at the top and a neon pink headline on black: Big Bad Beachfront Afterparty. 9 November 621. “The bigwigs are throwing the usual bash tomorrow evening—this was in the team mailbox. This year it’s down in some Niro restaurant north of the market.”

Anqien perked up. “Oh, Nakano? I’m down to check it out.”

The Sail Fed afterparties—a mainstay of the Niro-Helfi Race’s suite of side events—had never been Jinai’s thing, always too crowded and wild. But Anqien, whom she had initially thought too mild to enjoy them, had turned out to be a bit of a party fiend. They already looked completely sold on the event and intent on ignoring glaring problems of last year’s. She cast them a wry smile. “Guess we’ll be going.”

“As your local weather expert,” said Iki, “There’s about a ninety percent chance that those two—” he pointed at the screen, where the hovering camera was following the Mirages with their sail on the home stretch— “will be there as well.”

Jinai smirked. “Good.”

A cheer went up just a second later, cleaving the conversation in two. It came through the screen speakers, but it was also loud enough to resound through the gap in the glass where Anqien had pushed open the door.

Iki shook his head. “Oof, missed out on your time by like a minute.”

“Like you always say, could be the wind conditions,” Jinai replied, stretching her arms up. “There’s no point in counting the raw seconds until we’re on the same course at the same time.”

“I know, I know,” Iki answered. “But you know the fans care about the numbers. And so does the news.”

The screen door thudded as Anqien shut it, then wove back between the terminals and gesture pads. “When’s the press conference?”

“Five, or after the last race ends, whichever’s later,” Janda said.

Jinai looked at Anqien, who returned the look a second later. They nodded simultaneously. There it was, like she had felt a thousand times—that tug of what felt like an invisible thread connecting them together.

“It was great catching up,” they piped up, already halfway to the door. “But I feel like touring the hotel for a bit.”

“Oooh, if you go, definitely check out the cafe,” Janda added. “The coffees are to die for.”

It was much clearer how tall the corridors were now that they had been inside the office. The ceiling vaulted like a temple’s, far too ornate next to the plain room they had just exited. Anqien and Jinai walked level with each other down the corridor, looking out for any signage that might point them to the café of interest.

But eventually, it was the scent of baking and the portended coffee that pointed their way there, out into what must have been the other end of the building from the lobby. The café porch overlooked a courtyard where hibiscus bushes were starting to put out buds, none of them quite in bloom just yet.

The current clientele numbered one—a man in a business suit tucked into a corner of the indoor section, behind a wooden screen wall. Anqien led the charge to the barista’s counter, where someone perked up to peer over the cherry red machine and drip filters.

“Oh! Hi!” their voice lilted. They swooped over behind the counter and beamed. They were about Jinai's height, with all their dark wavy hair in a tidy bun on their head. “Didn’t expect to see you here so soon after your run. Great race earlier, by the way—congrats!” They gestured diagonally across the café at the old, circular filographic screen mounted on the wall, crackly grey footage of the third qual race glowing through.

Anqien’s eyes had followed the gesture. “It went quite decently for a qual,” they replied.

“Yeah, I’d say so!” The barista beamed brightly. “Love your hair, by the way, I like that shade of blue-green.”

“Oh—thanks!”  Their gaze whipped back to they counter and they brushed a lock of said hair behind their ear, laughing haltingly. Jinai found her attention reeled in by that interaction and was taken, momentarily, by an impulse to pull her teammate’s gaze away from them. She ignored it soundly. Noticing nothing, the barista nodded. “What can I get you?”

A selection of pies was on display under the counter. She ordered her usual coffee—white with skimmed milk—and Anqien went for a hazelnut syrup ochre coffee with cinnamon powder. The wait wasn’t five minutes, the drinks coming in turquoise teacups.

“You seem to be in a good mood,” Jinai said, pulling herself a chair at a two-seater table on the veranda. It didn’t fully register how she had come to that conclusion until Anqien put down their coffee opposite her. Hazelnut-and-cinnamon-powder was always a reward.

“It was a good race, don’t you think?” they replied, rolling their aching shoulders. “I’m almost looking forward to press later.”

“I’ve never heard of looking forward to press,” she answered. Lifting her cup to her lips, she sipped gently, feeling out its temperature—looking straight at her companion.

They propped their chin up on their elbow. Birds chittered from the budding hibiscus bushes. “Just like how you didn’t believe I could enjoy parties?”

Jinai snorted, lowering her coffee. “I didn’t buy it till last year’s Sail Fed party,” she answered. She forced down a grin as the image of Anqien singing over the ship’s bulwark, halfway to blackout drunk, floated into her thoughts. “Too bad it’s not on a cruise this time.”

“Yeah, but a restaurant. Imagine the fancy food.”

Chances were that the actual restaurant would be repurposed as a glorified function space that they’d fill with spinning lights (it wasn’t a Sail Fed party without them) and floor-thumping music. “I guess the catering has gotta be reasonable,” she replied.

Their little coffee date became prolonged by virtue of the place being beautiful and cosy enough to make leaving difficult. It wasn’t till their filographs simultaneously let out a ring that they finally pushed their cups away and rose, jogging back to the headquarters.