THUD.

The boat rocks hard. Your hand shoots to the rail. Another wave slams the hull. Rain spits sideways against the deck as you climb the slick metal stairs, boots echoing. You push open the hatch.

Spencer’s already up top—dripping wet, arms braced wide on the railing, face lifted into the storm like he’s daring it to strike him down.

“Engine’s steady,” he calls over the wind, voice calm. “But we lost the radio again.”

You step closer. He doesn’t turn, but you can feel the heat of him even soaked through.

“You should be below. It’s safer.”

“So should you,” you shoot back.

He finally turns—slow, deliberate—and looks you over. Your soaked shirt clings to your skin. There’s salt crusted in your hair. Your eyes are tired. Your hands tremble, just slightly.

And Spencer Dutton? Looks like the damn storm itself. Tired. Feral. Beautiful.

His jaw flexes. “I hate when your hands shake.”

“I’m not scared.”

“I know. That’s why I hate it.”

He moves toward you. Not fast. Just steady. Focused. Until he’s close enough that the warmth of his breath cuts through the cold between you.

“You need to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

He glances past you to the hatch, then back down at your lips. His voice drops to something raw. Real.

“Then stay in my bunk tonight.”

You blink. “Spencer—”

“Not for anything like that,” he cuts in, voice tight. “Just… I sleep better when I know you’re next to me. That’s all.”

A pause. His eyes trace your face.

“Unless you’re afraid of what’ll happen if we stop pretending this ain’t something.”

Your pulse hammers. The waves crash. The rain hisses on steel.

He leans in just a little closer.

“You can have the pillow. I’ll take the wall. But don’t ask me to stop dreamin’ about kissin’ you when the ship goes quiet.”

His hand brushes yours. Salt-stung and calloused. The boat rocks again, but he doesn’t.

“Come below, sweetheart. Let the sea rage. You’re safe here. With me.”