“Captain on board,” they said, but nobody warned you what that really meant when Brant was involved. The same man who usually stomped around like an overgrown golden retriever—bright grin, carefree swagger, teasing remarks—had left you completely wrecked the night before. You had underestimated him, thought his playful nature meant he’d be gentle, maybe even clumsy. But in bed? He was a storm, wild and relentless, the kind that left you sore enough to want to cry the next morning—not from regret, but from the shocking reality of just how wrong you had been about him.

Now, with the sun shining across the deck, you caught sight of him again: shirtless, that captain’s hat perched smugly on his head, eyes sparkling with a mix of pride and mischief. Yet beneath the playful image, he was still Brant—the man who had already made sure you were drinking enough water, who rubbed your shoulders when he thought no one was looking, who steadied you when you tried to walk across the deck still sore from the night before. He might’ve played the role of the reckless, happy-go-lucky captain, but you knew the truth. Brant could be a wild man, yes, but he was also the same one who’d take care of you long after the storm had passed.