Page 70 of Weathering The Storm

“But what ifIcan’t take care ofyou?”

Seth is quiet for a beat, and then his body comes down over mine. Shielding me from my own insecurity the same way I tried to shield him from the arctic storm. His arms wrap around me, his cheek presses between my shoulder blades, and the warm weight of his body pushes more emotions out of me.

“Everyone keeps telling me I did the right thing. That I did somethinggood,” I whisper. “My dad told me he’s proud of me. Your mom fucking thanked me for keeping you alive, and that’s the last thing I deserve. Because that was pure fuckingluck. A minute too late, and I would’velost you.”

His arms tighten around me.

“What if they’re all wrong?” My voice cracks apart. “The captain who lost his crew could’ve done everything right and stillbeen in the wrong place at the wrong time. The captains who didn’t get affected—they could’ve taken risks, fucked up, but got lucky. How am I ever supposed to move on, to go back out there, knowing that there’s a chance I should’ve done things differently? Knowing thatluckwas the difference between being in your bed or being at your fuckingfuneral, Seth.”

I don’t look at him. I can’t. I keep my face buried in the pillow, cursing my traitorous body as he kisses across my shoulders and my skin erupts into goosebumps.

“Ah. There it is.” His lips hover over the back of my neck as he speaks. “You wanna know how I know you’ve been beating yourself up?”

“How?”

“Because that’s who you are. You’re careful. You’re analytical. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. You believe in responsibility and accountability and fairness, and you’re a man of your principles. It’s what I admire about you. It’s what Iloveabout you.”

His knuckles brush my cheek, coaxing me to meet his eyes. “I have never seen you make a careless or irresponsible decision in the four years I’ve known you. But you know what you can’t control? Fairness. The ocean isn’t fair. The wind isn’t fair. The ice isn’t fair. Nature isn’t fair—it’s unpredictable. And when things took a turn for the worst, you made the choice that would giveusthe best chance.

“You didn’t wait until the last minute, you didn’t hesitate, you didn’t prioritize saving theSuoja. You put your crew first. You protected your people.And then you protectedme. Becausewhat I remember about that night isn’t how fucking cold and awful it was. It’s how you pulled me into the life raft and never let me go.”

My heart aches at his tenderness, his hands slowly caressing me everywhere he can reach.

“As sad as I was to watch theSuojago down, she was never the protector, Nicky,” he says. “Youare.”

For the longest time, he doesn’t move a muscle. Neither of us do, and neither of us says a word, because he knows what I need right now. Just like he knew what I needed to hear when I was certain no words existed that could ease the ache in my heart.

I don’t feel the pain now though. I feel whole.

Slowly, he sits up, and then something cold runs down my back. Lotion, I realize, when he starts to rub it in.

“Sorry, I know,” he says. “It’ll get better.”

It does.

His hands spread across my back, the cream warming beneath his palms with each circle he massages over my skin.

Nothing will dry you out faster than salt water, and I’m the cautionary tale. My skin is tight, burning where it’s cracked, as he rubs lotion over my back in broad strokes. Kneading the spots of tension he encounters from the base of my spine to the back of my neck.

“Good?” he asks.

I make a smothered sound of assent. Biting back the urge to groan at how good it feels. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing, Lundvall. Knock it the fuck off.”

Just when I think he’s done, he shuffles forward on his knees and takes hold of my forearm, resting my elbow against the ground as he starts with my hand. He laces his fingers with mine, rubbing lotion into every crack and crevice worn by weather and labor.

His cock is hard when it brushes against my spine, leaving a print of moisture on my lower back. I try to subdue the hitch in my breath, but I’ve never been able to hide anything from him.

He pays neither of our bodies heed. It’s as if he’s banished arousal from his mind, solely focused on the task of healing my skin.

My knuckles pop and crack as he stretches out each finger, his thumbs trailing down the center of my palm to my pulse.

A hum makes its way from the back of his throat as he kneads my forearm, my bicep. Fingers appreciatively pressing into each divot of muscle. “You’re beautiful.”

I shudder as he moves to my other arm, lacing our fingers once more. “Not like you.”

“I wish you could see yourself right now.” He arranges my arms above my head when he finishes, crossing my wrists and giving them a squeeze before his hands travel to my shoulders. A cold line of lotion trails down my legs next.